Haunted Heart
by mahc
Summary: He found his thoughts returning to another night three years earlier, a night he had lain almost in this very spot, a night he had thought would change his life. And it certainly had, but not at all the way he planned.
1. By Tomorrow Night

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

"In the night though we're apart,

There's a ghost of you within my haunted heart.

Ghost of you, my lost romance,

Lips that laughed, eyes that danced.

Haunted heart won't let me be,

Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.

Dreams are dust, it's you who must belong to me,

And thrill my haunted heart.

Be still, my haunted heart."

"Haunted Heart"

1948

Lyrics: Howard Dietz

Music: Arthur Schwartz

**Chapter One: By Tomorrow Night**

**POV:** Matt

**Spoilers:** "The Badge;" "The Disciple"

Rating: PG-13 (Teen)

**Disclaimer:** I did not create these characters, but I love to play with them (especially Matt).

**Author's Notes:** This story takes place after "The Disciple," using some of the storyline created by the writers of the show. I have, however, ignored most of Season 20 (as most of us have anyway) and created my own storyline.

**XXXX**

Matt Dillon rarely swore. It wasn't that he had anything against it; he just wasn't inclined to express himself that way very often. In his circle of friends, Doc was the most likely to grumble a few expletives, and Kitty had spit out more than one "damn" or "hell," usually toward him. Festus mostly made up words that only he and his hill country relatives would recognize as profane. Tonight, though, the thrifty conversationalist marshal ground out a colorful series that all of them would have admired.

Of course, no one was there to verify. And that was why he indulged himself.

The night had gotten well underway by the time he and Buck stumbled across a serviceable stand of trees, their gnarled roots crawling over the ground like arthritic fingers. Still, it was the best place for bedding down he'd come across in several hours. After dragging the saddle from the weary horse and making sure he was watered, he laid out his bedroll.

Humidity hung heavy in the air, pressing down on his lungs and sucking the strength from his body. In weather like this, he felt the reminder of every bullet, each knife, and even a fist or two from the previous 20 years. Running a hand roughly through the thick waves of graying brown hair, he decided that he was getting old. Funny, but that was something he figured he'd never have to deal with. The lifestyle he led, the job he held – he hadn't thought he'd ever see 40, much less be looking toward 50.

His leg bothered him the most. At least out on the trail he could give in to the ache, groan and grimace as much as he wanted, limp as heavily as he felt like limping. No one would wonder if he was spent. No one would speculate if there might be a chance now to take the "un-takeable" Marshal Dillon.

He flexed his right hand experimentally. It had become habit over the past few months, a daily test of the progress he had made after the disastrous injury to his right forearm – his gun arm. The pain was still there, he noted, irritated that it remained, but encouraged that it seemed to diminish bit by bit. Either that or he was just growing tolerant of it. Not as if he hadn't lived with pain before.

Shaking his head, he kneeled gingerly, taking care not to put too much weight on the right leg before he let his body drop onto the bedroll. There were times he felt like heading the opposite direction of his adopted town, going up into the hills again, living off the land. It had its appeals. At least the responsibilities of the world might lessen, although he figured he'd never be completely shed of them.

And then there was another reason he didn't take off. As they usually did when he was alone on the trail, his thoughts turned to Kitty. He wondered what she was doing that night, imagined her sliding out of her fancy dress and slipping into a sheer gown. If he had been there, she would have drawn him to her and run her fingers over his aches, kissed scars and rubbed away the tightness of his muscles. With the vision, he felt his body responding, closed his eyes with the familiar sensation of arousal. He chuckled. Maybe he wasn't _that_ old yet.

But his chuckle died out as he remembered that he hadn't left under the best of circumstances. The fury in her blue eyes had followed him throughout the long prairie ride and down into South Texas. She hadn't wanted him to leave, had argued that his arm wasn't strong enough, that he still was too vulnerable. He had assured her he would be fine. In fact, he had strapped on his old, comfortable right-side holster again, confident enough in the skill he had fought so hard to regain for the past six months. He winced, though, at the memory of her anger. But he was almost home now, and he was returning to her unscathed – if she didn't count the raw streak that damn stage robber's bullet had burned across his ribs. Of course, his own bullet had landed between the man's eyes, so the exchange had definitely come out in his favor.

Now, he was ready to do what it took to make those eyes light with joy instead of anger – both physical joy and emotional joy. By tomorrow night this time, he would be in her arms, caressed by her fingers and her lips instead of the heavy prairie air. By tomorrow night, he would have told her. He smiled in anticipation of her reaction and drifted off under the stars, dreaming of her touch.

**XXXX**

"_Mmm, smell that air, Matt."_

As he entered town, the marshal drew in a deep breath, and did, indeed, smell the air, and let the memory of her voice float across his mind. It had been four years before, when she left him after he took that bullet from the would-be freight office robbers, and he had been terrified she really meant it. He had even gone to Ballard after her, eventually deciding he couldn't force her to return. But she had. And as they stood outside the jail, she had commented on the smell.

"_Somethin' different?"_ he had asked, barely able to contain himself over her return.

"_Umm hmm,"_ she had answered confidently. _"Dodge City."_

He had wanted to catch her up into his arms and twirl her around and kiss her – and more – right there on the street, but he had managed to control himself until they escaped behind the closed door of her room. Barely. After that, he had not worried about control, at least for the rest of a very passionate night.

The memory brought a smile to his lips. He ran a hand over the rough stubble of his jaw and briefly contemplated freshening up before he saw her, but he couldn't wait. Almost a month away from her had made him eager and impatient. Besides, there were times she liked him unshaven and just off the trail. He hoped this was one of those times.

Buck headed toward the Long Branch, and Matt had to smile at the evidence of his predictability. He knew that if he tugged the reigns just to the right, the horse would take the hint and track to the jail. But he didn't. Instead, he let the big buckskin clop up to the rail, as he had done many, many times before. As Matt dismounted, he forced back a grunt, trying to ignore the flash of pain in his back and leg. He was in town, now. Even though he couldn't completely mask the limp, he could grit his teeth and lessen it.

Glancing down his long body, he took a moment to knock the top layer of dust off the front of his shirt and pants before he stepped up onto the boardwalk. Only a few more seconds, now, he thought, steeling himself not to let the physical force of being with her again cause any embarrassment.

It was midday, and the saloon catered to a decent crowd, most of whom nodded to him as he entered. A few did double takes when they realized who he was. He didn't blame them. He'd been gone quite a while this time. Still, the strange expressions on their faces nagged at the back of his brain.

"Marshal."

He immediately released those irritating thoughts and nodded across the bar at Floyd, giving him a tired, but courteous smile. "Kitty in her office?" he asked quietly, not too concerned about being casual. Floyd knew the score as well as Sam had.

But instead of his usual smile and head tilt, the older man swallowed and let his eyes dart nervously toward the office door. Matt followed the gaze, not sure what he was looking for, except that he wanted to see Kitty breeze out and greet him. Then, someone did come out, but it sure as hell wasn't Kitty. A solid woman, with a pleasant face that, nevertheless, brokered no nonsense, walked up behind the bar.

Floyd stepped back and nodded toward Matt. "This is Marshal Dillon," he said.

The woman's eyes widened slightly, but she covered the reaction quickly and extended a hand. "Well, Matt Dillon." She looked him up and down boldly. "Everything I've heard and more."

He wasn't sure what to make of that, so he just took her hand briefly. "Ma'am."

"Don't 'ma'am' me. I'm Hannah."

He used the moment to assess her, wondering if Kitty had hired another bartender. But this woman didn't look like a barkeep. She looked like – he gritted his teeth with the suspicion – like an _owner_.

"Where's Kitty?" he asked, too impatient to bother with further pleasantries.

Hannah's pleasant expression faltered a bit, and she hooked a thumb toward the hallway. "Uh, why don't ya' come on back to my office, Marshal – "

_My _office?

But he didn't budge. Squaring up so he stood his full, dominating height, he repeated, "Where's Kitty?"

Floyd looked at Hannah, who sighed and shook her head. "Well, Marshal," she said, her eyes softening, and he realized with horror that the softness was sympathy. "Kitty's gone."

**TBC**


	2. He Needed

Thanks so much to everyone for the great feedback! Here's the second chapter. Hope you enjoy!

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

"In the night though we're apart,

There's a ghost of you within my haunted heart.

Ghost of you, my lost romance,

Lips that laughed, eyes that danced.

Haunted heart won't let me be,

Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.

Dreams are dust, it's you who must belong to me,

And thrill my haunted heart.

Be still, my haunted heart."

"Haunted Heart"

1948

Lyrics: Howard Dietz

Music: Arthur Schwartz

**Chapter Two: He Needed**

**POV:** Doc

**Spoilers:** "Hostage!;" "The Disciple"

**Rating:** PG-13 (Teen)

**Disclaimer:** I did not create these characters, but I love to play with them (especially Matt).

**XXXX**

The door to Galen Adams' office flew open, slamming back on its hinges with the force behind it, but the noise didn't startle the doctor, nor did he have to look up to see who was there. He had recognized the heavy footfalls as soon as they hit his stairs, had heard the same distinctive gait for the past twenty years. The pace had changed some in recent times, was not quite as even as it used to be, but it remained individual to the man. This time, though, he had gained the top of the stairs more quickly than usual, and Doc determined he had taken the steps two – or maybe even three – at a time.

Taking a breath, he turned toward the door, bracing himself for what was coming. The brightness of the outside created a silhouette of his visitor, but there was no mistaking the massive frame of Matt Dillon. The marshal stood in the doorway, head almost touching the top of the threshold, shoulders filling the space across. Doc could hear his breathing coming hard and fast after what must have been a sprint from either the Long Branch or the jail. Willing an artificial calm across his features, he hooked an arm over the back of his chair and prepared to face the man he considered both friend and son.

He had once told Matt Dillon that he had the best poker face he'd ever seen. And that was true when the stalwart marshal faced deadly gunslingers on the street. But his strong features could also melt into the most expressive face Doc had ever seen – especially when Kitty Russell was involved.

Now, as his vision adjusted to the light, and he let his gaze trail up past the unshaven jaw to those blue eyes, he saw fear and fury flash from them, only to be followed by pain so visible he felt almost as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

Matt continued to stand, unmoving, in the doorway. Finally, he drew in a calmer breath and asked, "Where is she?"

It was the question Doc had dreaded for three weeks, the moment he had already lived out in too many restless nightmares. "Sit down, Matt," he said quietly, knowing just as well that his friend wouldn't obey.

He was right, of course. "Where – is – she?" the marshal repeated, each word emphasized precisely and impatiently.

Adams took a breath, looked Matt in the eye, then swallowed and turned away. How could he do this? How could he tell this man she was gone? _Coward_, he scolded himself. Drawing from some inner strength, he looked back, held his gaze steady, and said, "I don't know."

It was the truth, although he saw immediately from the sudden dark scowl that Matt didn't believe him– or maybe he _couldn't _believe him. The marshal broke his stance then, took two long strides into the room, stopping only inches away from the doctor.

_My God, he's tall_, Adams marveled, not having given that fact much thought the past few years, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he decided that Dillon had never looked so powerful – or so helpless.

"Where is she?" he ground out again, voice too close to falling completely apart to sound like Matt Dillon.

Doc lowered his head and fumbled toward the desk, opening a flask of whiskey and pouring a generous portion into a shot glass. Without a word, he handed it to Matt. The marshal looked past it, staring still at the doctor, but Adams shook his head and pushed the drink closer. After another few heartbeats, Matt grabbed it, unconcerned as the golden liquid sloshed over his hand. He downed it in one gulp and closed his long fingers around the glass.

"Doc?" he asked, voice hoarse, losing some of its demand. Then his long body seemed to fold, and he collapsed into a chair, slumping in fatigue and pain. Tugging the hat from his head, he ran a hand through his unruly hair and, in a whisper, almost pleaded, "Galen?"

Adams blinked. Matt had never called him by his given name. Hell, he hadn't even told anyone what it was until a few years before. "I really don't know, Matt," he said gently, pouring the marshal another drink.

Dillon took it without protest and drank it just as quickly as he had the first one. Doc decided he could use one, as well, and took his own good slug.

"When?" Matt managed after the third whiskey. His eyes had taken on a haunted look, their brilliant blue dull and unfocused.

In all the years he had known Matt Dillon, Doc had never seen him drunk – not really drunk. The conscientious lawman never let himself lose control. In his line of work, it was simply too dangerous. Plus, it was completely out of character. Now, though, the physician was seriously considering prescribing both of them a bottle of the hard stuff and a night of dreamless sleep.

"Three weeks ago," he heard himself answer, and the memory of that day came back with gut-wrenching clarity.

**XXXX**

"Kitty, don't do it now," he had pleaded, watching her buckle the strap on the last of her trunks. "Wait until he comes back. Give him that much, at least."

Matt had been gone less than a week when she sent for Doc to come to her room, and he had arrived to find her packed up and ready to leave Dodge. Stunned, he tried everything he knew to convince her to stay – for Matt, for himself, for the town. But she had shaken her head, the sadness in her eyes almost unbearable.

"I can't, Doc," she had sighed heavily. "I just can't do it anymore, and if I wait, if I see him again, I won't be able to go – and I _have_ to go."

Desperate to find some way to reach her, he caught her arm gently. "Why?"

When she looked at him, he saw something he hadn't seen since Jude Bonner. Surrender. She was giving up.

"Kitty, after all these years?" he asked. No need to pretend he didn't know about them. "After everything you've both been through – after what you have been to each other? Why now?"

She turned away, facing the window, her arms wrapping around her waist as if to protect herself from the pain of her own words. "I asked him not to go. Not yet. He's not – his arm's not – "

"He'll be okay. You know Matt. Somehow, he always finds a way to survive." The words rang true, but hollow.

But she just shook her head. "I just can't do it anymore. Not now that – not now. I can't wait for someone to send a telegram telling me that that beautiful body is lying on some undertaker's slab in El Paso, or Topeka, or Pueblo, or – or – I just can't do it anymore. Not now – especially not now – "

She hitched in a breath, barely keeping her composure. He reached for her, but she waved him off.

"I thought – " he began, then faltered.

She lifted her chin. "You thought what?"

"I thought you loved him."

She whirled on him, fury in her eyes. "How can you say that to me? After all these years, how can you – I _love_ him. Dear God, I love him so much. And it hurts so much when – " Swallowing, she admitted, "I get sick every time he rides out. Did you know that? Every single time."

He hadn't known, and marveled that she could have kept it from him for almost 20 years. Dropping his outstretched arms, he asked quietly, "What about the Long Branch?"

"I've sold it." A simple declaration, but it did more than anything else to convince him she really meant it. Besides Matt, the Long Branch was her life. If she was giving it up –

Feeling as if he might be sick himself, he asked, "Where will you go?"

A shrug lifted her shoulders. "I can't say."

"You can't say or you _won't _say?"

Her mouth turned up slightly. "I'm not sure. Maybe both."

Adams closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to hang on to his own tenuous control. When he opened them again, Kitty had moved across the bare room. "Kitty," he said, unable to keep from trying one last time, "please just stay until Matt gets back. You can talk about it with him – "

But she cut him off. "No. I can't bear to watch him ride off, knowing it might be the last time I see him alive." Her voice quavered and threatened to break. "I can't take the pain that rips right through me every time some damn gunfighter struts into town to kill Matt Dillon."

The honesty of those last words choked her and the tears that had already welled suddenly burst out in heavy sobs. Doc stepped toward her to hug her to him, to comfort her, but she jerked away, anger clashing with fear.

"Get out."

Her command stunned him. "What?"

"Get out," she repeated, and even though her voice remained low, it held a warning of desperation. "_Please._"

Heart sick, he reached for the door knob, stopping when she whispered, "I'll – I'll come see you before – before I leave."

Without looking back, he nodded and, moist-eyed, not caring who stared at him, shuffled through the Long Branch and back up his stairs.

Two hours later, after kissing his cheek and hugging him hard, she slipped onto the afternoon stage. It was the last time any of them had seen her.

**XXXX**

Sometime during the retelling, Matt had leaned forward, his arms braced on his thighs, his eyes staring at the empty whiskey glass clutched in his hand. Doc waited for him to speak, but the silence continued.

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, the physician cleared his throat and asked, "How's that arm doin'?"

He hadn't told Kitty, but he'd been just as concerned about the wound as she had. Six months of agonizing work on Matt's part had brought it back much faster than Adams could have ever dreamed. But it had still been a significant injury. The sheer loss of blood had weakened his entire body and had especially caused problems for the tissue of the forearm. He wouldn't have given two cents for Matt bringing it back so far and so fast. Of course, he also conceded that if anyone had the determination to do it, Matt Dillon did.

The marshal hadn't answered him, still stared at the glass. Adams wished he'd look up, wished he would talk it out, come up with a plan of some kind, wished the marshal would jump up and crash out the door and down the stairs in anger or in pursuit – or both.

Then Dillon did raise his head, and Doc caught his breath. The confident, unwavering gaze, the sure eyes, the stoic expression had all been replaced by something he had never seen from Matt Dillon – something he never dreamed he'd see: despair.

Without a word, the marshal reached for the flask and knocked back three more long swallows. He was a big man, and it took more alcohol than most men could handle to affect him. But the doctor saw the slight glaze of his eyes and knew it was time to step in.

"Why don't you lie down for a while, Matt? You look beat." That was, of course, an understatement.

"No." The voice growled out from an even deeper register than usual, rough with the effort to form even that one word. After a heavy breath, he managed a complete sentence – almost. "I can't, I have to – "

"Not tonight," Doc insisted, seeing how close the lawman was to collapse. As gently as possible, he said, "It's been almost a month, Matt. You can start tomorrow, after you get a good night's sleep."

He expected more protest, and was both alarmed and relieved when he didn't get it. After a few moments, Matt looked at him – or toward him anyway – and pushed slowly to his feet. When he swayed, Doc slid an arm around his waist to steady him, drawing back when the marshal hissed abruptly.

"You okay?"

But big lawman didn't answer. Instead, he pushed out of Adams' grasp, stumbled through the bedroom door, and dropped onto the bed, legs and arms flung wide. Doc ambled in after him, shaking his head. With a sigh, he unbuckled the gun belt, jerking it out from under the heavy body. Dillon didn't budge; he was out cold.

Taking advantage of the rare situation, Doc started to unbutton the dusty shirt to see what might have caused the marshal's obvious pain. Even before he finished, he spied the rip in the material and blood stains. As soon as he bared the broad chest, Doc ran a gentle finger around the wicked gash that sliced upward across the ribs of his left side, almost five inches long. A bullet had done that, and he was damn lucky it hadn't hit an inch over. It probably should have taken a few stitches when it was fresh, but Doc contented himself with spreading a thick salve over the partially healed flesh. Matt grimaced at the sting, but didn't come around.

After bandaging the area to keep the salve in place, Doc rolled up the shirtsleeve and bent to examine the older injury, the arm that Dillon had nearly lost. Except for a rugged scar, the place appeared to be in remarkably good shape. The muscle tone was good, firm, not quite back to normal but better than he would have ever thought it could be again. Still, even gentle pressure brought a wince to the marshal's face.

"Sorry, Matt," he muttered, easing the arm back onto the bed. With no small effort, he tugged off Dillon's pants and boots, figuring he could at least get them cleaned of the trail dirt while the marshal slept. Throwing a blanket over the long legs, the doctor fell back, exhausted, in a chair and contemplated what would happen next.

Marshal Dillon, the icon, was a loner who needed nothing and no one. But Doc knew that Matt Dillon, the man, was very different. He needed. He needed friendship; he needed challenges; he needed happiness.

But mainly, he needed Kitty Russell.

Doc closed his eyes, his thoughts flying back to those agonizing hours when Kitty hovered between life and death after Jude Bonner had gotten through with her. As Matt knelt by her side, her delicate hand cradled in his huge ones, Doc had heard his roughened voice admit it.

"_I need you, Kitty. I need you."_

It wasn't anything Adams hadn't known already. But now Kitty was gone. Gone. It seemed impossible.

Unable to deal with the renewed realization, he forced his eyes open and pushed up from the chair to gather the marshal's clothes. Better to be doing something than to wallow uselessly in a problem he couldn't resolve right then. He dragged Dillon's pants off the end of the bed, but stopped when he saw something fall from a pocket. Frowning, he bent to pick up a small, deep blue, velvet pouch. That certainly didn't look like something Matt usually carried around with him. Curiosity prompted him to spread open the top and peer inside, but he didn't see anything, so he carefully turned it upside down and let the contents empty into his hand.

His mouth dropped open, and he stood there, stunned, as he stared at the shining gold band that lay in his palm. It was delicate, with inlaid diamonds, not too gaudy, but not skimpy, either. And there was no doubt in his mind about the intended recipient.

Heart aching anew, he felt moisture fill his eyes as he gazed down at the sleeping figure, watched the bare chest rise and fall, and pondered how a grown man who had seen so much, who had been so strong, could look so innocent and vulnerable.

"I'm so sorry, son," he whispered, turning the ring over in his hand. "I'm so sorry."

"_I need you, Kitty."_

Matt Dillon needed. And now what was he going to do?

**TBC**


	3. He's a Lawman

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

"In the night though we're apart,

There's a ghost of you within my haunted heart.

Ghost of you, my lost romance,

Lips that laughed, eyes that danced.

Haunted heart won't let me be,

Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.

Dreams are dust, it's you who must belong to me,

And thrill my haunted heart.

Be still, my haunted heart."

"Haunted Heart"

1948

Lyrics: Howard Dietz

Music: Arthur Schwartz

**Chapter Three: He's a Lawman**

**POV:** Hannah

**Spoilers:** "The Badge;" "The Disciple"

**Rating:** PG-13 (Teen)

**Disclaimer:** I did not create these characters, but I love to play with them (especially Matt).

**XXXX**

The sun had nearly burned off the cool of the morning when Hannah pushed open one of the Long Branch's swinging doors and leaned against it to watch her new town wake up. The milk wagon had passed through earlier than the saloon owner cared to rise, but she was still able to watch the merchants as they strode briskly to work, raising shades and opening doors and inviting their customers to support the local economy. Her own profits, as promised by Kitty Russell, had been quite satisfactory, and she decided that she was going to like this place right well.

Even before she bought the Long Branch, she already had a passing familiarity with the busy town. After all, who hadn't heard of Dodge City? And the same could be said for Marshal Matt Dillon, who had earned himself a place in the annals of history with deeds that bordered on myth. Legend had made him out to be a giant of a man, fearless, intrepid, and virtually unmatched in his skill with a firearm.

Now Hannah could compare that larger-than-life persona with the very real man she had met the day before. And reality was a bit different from myth. From the embellishments of the journalists who wrote about the wildness of the West, she had expected a man who lived such a rough life to look more like a grizzled buffalo hunter, burly and unkempt. After meeting Kitty Russell, though, she couldn't quite reconcile that vision with someone the beautiful saloon owner would keep company with. His arrival had confirmed her second guess. In that first moment of introduction, as she let her gaze travel up his tall body, she had been more than pleasantly surprised to find herself scanning over long legs, firm waist, strong chest, broad shoulders, and a pair of expressive sky-blue eyes. Hannah had never set much store on appearances, but she'd have been lying if she didn't admit that Matt Dillon was a fine looking man. This was certainly no buffalo hunter.

As far as him being fearless and intrepid, she had no doubt he was when facing thieves and murderers, but when facing the hard news she had to give him, he couldn't hide the terror behind those intense eyes. The sight of such a powerful man emotionally pole-axed was something she'd never forget.

**XXXX**

"Kitty's gone," she had told him, even though it made her heart ache to do it.

She didn't think she could have stunned him more if she had slugged him between the eyes with the butt of the rifle Floyd kept under the bar. Weeks on the trail had left him with a deep tan, but suddenly he paled beneath it, and his jaw slackened in shock. If she hadn't already known what his relationship had been with Kitty Russell, she would have realized it then.

It wasn't long, though, before she got a glimpse of the strength of the man. Lowering his head, he dragged the mantle of marshal back around his shoulders, waited a beat longer as it settled in place it, then looked back up, face as composed as a professional gambler's. Taking a breath, he pressed his hands against the counter, leaning forward.

"Where'd she go?" he asked, voice even, steady.

But no amount of self-control could hide the pain in his eyes, which pleaded and demanded at once. Although she had never been short on nerve, Hannah had to swallow twice before answering him. Even then, it took every skill she possessed from years of card playing to hold onto her bluff.

"I don't know."

She thought she saw panic flicker across his face, but it disappeared almost as soon as it appeared. Dillon's brow drew down, and he leaned in closer. "Where?"

Hannah could only shake her head, too full of guilt and regret over what this man was suffering to say the words again. For a moment, he looked as if he were about to be sick. But just as quickly, the shoulders straightened, and the head came back up, and the eyes hardened. Jaw tight, he stepped back from the bar and nodded.

"If you hear anything, I would appreciate – "

"I'll let you know," she finished.

He held her gaze another few moments, then, out of habit, tugged courteously at the brim of his hat and walked out. As the doors swung on their hinges, she turned back to Floyd and found him watching her, his expression a mixture of sympathy and curiosity.

**XXXX**

The morning streets of Dodge waved back into focus as the memory faded. Sighing, she was just about to step back inside the saloon when she noticed the very man she had been thinking about cross from Doc's office to the jail, his long stride thrown slightly off by a noticeable limp. It made sense that after twenty years of marshalling, he would have acquired enough injuries to account for any number of physical discomforts. She noted that his hat was pulled low over his eyes, and he kept his head down as he walked. If she had to guess, she'd lay odds he was nursing a hangover. He didn't seem much like the drinking type, but she figured after yesterday he certainly had reason.

Her eyes followed his path until he disappeared into the jail, ducking slightly as he walked through the door. She could certainly understand what had drawn Kitty Russell to him, but she still wasn't completely sure what had pulled her away. Oh, Kitty had told her the story, had explained why she had to go, but Hannah still felt there must be more to it, more to the destruction of a relationship that had weathered so many years before. He loved her, she had seen that in his eyes, had watched him react as if she had slapped him in the face when she told him Kitty was gone.

Shaking her head, she stopped at the bar to pour herself a small shot of whiskey, then walked back to her office and sat at the very table she and Kitty had used over three weeks earlier.

**XXXX**

It had been a quick transaction, no dickering. Kitty was ready to sell, Hannah offered a generous price, and they completed the agreement in one day, sealing the deal with a handshake, evidence of their intrusion into what was a male-dominated world of business. Hannah had to admire what Kitty had built. The Long Branch was a first class establishment. When she inquired about the reason for selling, though, she had gotten a vague answer about needing to move on, to try new things. But the pain behind Kitty's blue eyes did more than hint at a deeper reason.

Sitting in the back office, sharing coffee and completing the paperwork, it hadn't taken long for Hannah to run right into that reason.

"Things get rowdy in th' evenin's?" she had asked, already knowing Dodge's reputation.

Kitty smiled and sighed. "Sometimes. Nothing I'm sure you can't handle."

"But if it gets out of hand," Hannah wanted to know, "can I count on the law to help me out?"

A shadow crossed the younger woman's face, and Hannah wondered suddenly if she should hold up on signing the final bill of sale. If she didn't get support from the authorities –

But Kitty took a breath and assured her, "You won't have any problem with Ma – with the marshal."

"Marshal Dillon. I've heard about him. He as good as they say he is?"

This time, the eyes unfocused and looked past Hannah, thoughts obviously no longer in the present. Her face changed from sad and tense to soft and tender. Intrigued at what had brought about that transformation, Hannah remained silent until the trance broke, and Kitty blinked.

With a private smile, she answered quietly, "Yes. He is."

Hannah wasn't sure they were still talking about keeping the peace. Brow lifting, she studied the other woman closely, suddenly understanding what – or who – the deeper reason was. "Does he know you're leaving?" she asked bluntly.

Taken by surprise, Kitty couldn't wipe her face clean fast enough to make any pretense at not understanding the question. After a moment, she let her gaze drop, took a sip of coffee, swallowed, and shook her head. "No."

"Well," Hannah told her, placing a large hand on Kitty's smaller one, "it's none of my business, but if you don't mind me sayin' – seems like you're right partial to him."

Not looking up, she admitted, "I love him."

"I can see that," the older woman said. Then, speculating, added, "Did he beat you?" Hannah had never experienced it herself, but she'd seen her share of women who loved so blindly that they couldn't see the wrong in it. Sometimes powerful men felt the need to demonstrate that power over the weak.

But the incredulity on Kitty's face answered the question before she even spoke. "What?"

Already knowing she had guessed very wrong, Hannah tried to clarify. "Well, I asked if he beat you, but – "

"No. Certainly not," Kitty said, her voice hardening in defense of the marshal. "Matt would never – why, he's the kindest, gentlest – " She stopped, astonished at the thought. "No!"

"I'm sorry. I sure can see I was wrong about _that_." And she did see. Kitty looked as if she were about to slap her.

"Damn right," Kitty snapped.

Maybe there was another reason, then. Gently, Hannah suggested, "You love him, and he doesn't feel the same way, is that it?"

Kitty glared at her. "I believe you've already admitted this is none of your business," she snapped.

Shrugging, Hannah agreed. "I have, but that doesn't mean I ain't interested."

Unexpectedly, Kitty's scowl lifted to a laugh. "Well, that's not it either. He loves me. He loves me very much." Her expression grew serious again. "That's – that's part of the problem."

Brow drawn, Hannah cocked her head. "He loves you? Honey, I sure don't see how that's a problem – "

"He's a lawman," she said, almost spitting out the words. "For twenty years, he's been a lawman. I knew how it had to be, and it was okay. I just thought that one day – well, one day he'd stop being a lawman and then – "

Pushing up from the table, Kitty stepped to the roll top desk by the wall and fingered some knick-knacks scattered across it. "For twenty years I've watched him go after men – and a few women – and I've watched them come after him. Not one of them came who didn't intend to kill him. I've waited, my heart aching, while he tracked murderers all by himself down into Mexico and up to the Dakotas. I've wondered when I've been with him if this would be the last time we kissed, the last time we touched, the last time we – "

She started to pace, as if the memories were too unsettling to let her stand still. "I've watched Doc dig so many bullets out of him that even_ I've_ lost count – and I used to know where every mark on his body came from." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "They're just too many now – "

When she fell silent, Hannah asked, "Twenty years?"

"Just about."

"That's a long time. And you're leaving _now_?"

Her earrings jangled as she nodded. "He took a shot gun blast a few months ago. Almost bled to death. I thought he'd lose the arm for sure."

"His gun arm?"

"Yeah. Doc figured he'd never even be able to use it again, much less shoot like he had before."

"He was good?" Hannah had heard he was, of course.

"He was the best," Kitty said with certainty.

"I take it he did use it again."

"I thought maybe after that he'd decide it was finally time to turn in the badge. I thought, maybe we could – we could really be together."

"He didn't," Hannah guessed.

"He didn't. He went off for a while, to think things over. I wasn't sure he was coming back then, but he did. And things were good for a while. He worked hard to get his gun arm back in shape. Worked real hard. And he did it, too. He's almost as good as he was before."

"Almost?"

Kitty turned, and the fear on her face told the story. "Almost. I've just been waiting for someone to discover that he's a half second slower, that he's an inch less accurate. They'll come into town like pilgrims to the Holy Grail, to be the man who killed Matt Dillon."

Hannah stood and moved to stand next to Kitty, resting a hand on her shoulder. "And you don't want to be here when that happens."

"No. But – but It's not just that."

The older woman waited without speaking.

"Through the years, things have – happened – to me because of who and what he is. Bad things. And it's torn him up. He blames himself."

She stepped back from the desk, but didn't turn around. Hannah let her hand drop.

"That's why we've never – well, how much harder would it be to protect a wife and child? He would be distracted, tied down and unable to do his job like he needed. And what if he couldn't protect us? What if something happened to me or to – a child? He would never be able to forgive himself." Her voice fell to a whisper. "And maybe I couldn't forgive him either."

Hannah waited a moment, let the weight of what this woman must be feeling settle around them. Finally, she asked, "Where will you go?"

The moment broken, Kitty lifted her head and wiped at moist eyes. "I'm not sure. Home, maybe."

"Dodge isn't home?"

"I used to think so. No, New Orleans. I haven't been back there to live in over twenty years, but I still have friends and a few cousins there."

"When are you going to tell him?"

A sigh lifted her shoulders. "I'm not. He's gone now, tracking some outlaw again. If he comes – _when_ he comes back, he won't have to worry about me anymore. And I – "

_I won't have to worry about him_, Hannah finished silently for her. "You don't think he'll look for ya'?"

"He might." Her expression said he would. "Hannah, I need – I need you to promise something."

She knew it was coming, didn't want to commit to what was about to be asked of her, but this woman needed someone to trust, so she nodded.

"I won't tell you for sure, so you can't lie to him."

"I'd lie if you wanted me to."

Kitty smiled and embraced her successor to the Long Branch. "Thank you. It's best this way."

Hannah squinted dubiously. "If you say so."

Kitty took a breath, let it out, then took another and spoke again. "Could you do one more thing for me?"

"Sure." How much worse could it be than lying to a United States marshal?

"Sometimes, he has trouble – sleeping at night." She didn't seem to care that she had revealed an intimate detail about their relationship. "His leg," she explained. "Or his back. Or both. Old injuries."

Hannah watched her face tighten in empathy with her lover – or former lover.

"Matt's not much of a drinker, but sometimes, when it's really bad and he can't sleep, I'll pour him a shot – or two – of straight bourbon. It helps a little."

The older woman frowned. "I'm not sure what you want me to do."

Placing a hand on Hannah's arm, Kitty turned to her, eyes tortured. "If he comes in the Long Branch and looks like – well, you can see his jaw tighten, and he'll press his lips together hard when the pain's bad." The clear blue eyes clouded in memory and in distress. Taking in a ragged breath, she asked, "Can you offer him a shot? He may not take it, but offer it anyway. Just don't let him know why. In his line of work, he doesn't like to – he feels like he should always be in control, like he can't let down his guard and show any weaknesses."

Hannah shook her head, heart breaking for this woman and for the man who had no idea she was about to leave. "Are you sure you want to do this? We can tear up these papers right now – "

"No," Kitty said quickly, too quickly, as if trying to outrun the doubts that chased her. "I have to do this. Now, will you promise me?"

She felt the tears touch her eyes, and she hadn't cried in years. "Sure, honey. And he'll never know why."

They had shared their own toast of fine brandy after that. Then, she had signed the last paper and been part of ending an era in Dodge City. Kitty Russell was leaving. The Long Branch Saloon wouldn't be the same. Even Hannah knew that.

**XXXX**

Twisting the empty shot glass around in circles on the back office table, Hannah wondered if she would have even made an offer on the saloon if she had known the real reason for the sale. She couldn't help but believe that Kitty had made a huge mistake. But then again, that wasn't her for her to decide. She just prayed the marshal would give the Long Branch a wide berth and not ask her more questions. After meeting him and seeing just how much he loved Kitty Russell, she had her doubts about how long she could keep the promises she had made.

Because, it was very obvious that, even if Matt Dillon didn't feel like he could show any weakness, he sure as hell had revealed at least one.

**TBC**


	4. East

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Four: East**

POV: Matt

Spoilers: "The Disciple"

Rating: PG (Teen)

Disclaimer: I did not create these characters – unfortunately.

**XXXX**

Somewhere deep in Matt Dillon's brain, tiny miners drove pickaxes with disturbing regularity, over and over, sharp stabs behind his eyes, at the base of his skull, through his temples. Struggling up through the dark tunnel, he searched for the light, for his escape from the torture, but when he finally managed to gain the surface and open his eyes, the brilliant flash of pain shoved him back down.

"Easy now."

A familiar voice grounded him, and he focused on it, braving another peek – a very small one. Doc stood over him, face blurring but discernable.

"Try some of this."

Squinting against the glare, the marshal let his gaze scan around him, identifying the all-too familiar surroundings of Doc's office. Grimacing, he looked toward the extended hand and the glass of brown liquid held there. "What is – " The words shifted like gravel in his throat.

"Hair of the dog," the doctor explained.

Matt blinked, wondering why he felt like a team of mules had trampled him. Maybe he had been shot. That was certainly not outside the realm of reality. The miners began their digging again, and he considered the fact that he had been hit over the head, maybe pistol whipped by some outlaw. But the sensation that rumbled through his body didn't quite fit either of those scenarios. A long-forgotten recollection filtered through his muddled thoughts, and he groaned in realization.

Drunk? Son of a – of all the stupid things. He hadn't consumed enough liquor to pass out in over twenty years, and now he remembered one of the reasons why. What the hell had prompted him to –

Then it came to him, hit him with all the raw power and pain of that first moment. His body rebelled both at the burn of memory and the boil of alcohol.

"Doc – " he moaned.

The physician had apparently been around long enough to recognize the sound and hurriedly scooped up a basin, holding it as the alcohol and the pain came back up in wretched waves of nausea. When he fell back onto the bed, sweating and clammy, Matt mumbled an apology to his old friend.

But Doc shook his head and set the basin aside. "I suppose I ought to tell you I'm sorry for giving you the whiskey in the first place."

Matt let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. "That's kind like the gunsmith tellin' the outlaw he's sorry he sold him the gun that got him killed."

Doc chuckled. "Good to hear a little humor from you."

But the lighter mood vanished abruptly as Matt swung his long legs over the side of the bed and tried to sit. His side burned with the movement; as he looked down to see what was wrong, he noticed for the first time that he wore no pants and his shirt hung completely open. He tugged the sheet over his lap, even though Doc knew his body better than anyone, except perhaps –

His chest suddenly ached; he closed his eyes against the dizziness that physical pain, exhaustion, and emotional sickness brought on. Kitty was gone. Dear God, Kitty was gone.

"Matt?"

He felt a touch at his wrist and opened his eyes to see Doc hovering near him, his professional fingers taking note of the pulse of his patient. Gritting his teeth against all the forms of torture that assailed him, Matt looked at his friend.

"You really don't know?" he asked quietly, already knowing the answer. Doc would have told him if he had any idea where Kitty was. He didn't doubt that.

The gray head shook sadly. "I don't, Matt. She – she left on the east-bound stage, if that helps any."

East. A lot of land lay east. "You mentioned something about the hair of the dog?" he reminded, knowing he would need a whole dog to help him drag his stiff body out of bed and down to the jail.

The physician smiled and handed him the glass again, watching as the marshal choked down half of it and somehow managed not to throw it back up. "Why don't you rest here a little longer, Matt? I'm sure that side of yours is smarting pretty good right now."

His hand dropped to his ribs, another memory returning. It was, indeed, smarting, but he wouldn't give Doc the satisfaction of hearing him admit it. "I'm okay. Thanks for seeing to it. My clothes around?"

Shaking his head at what Matt figured was his stubbornness, the doctor handed him a neatly folded pair of pants and underwear bottoms. "Couldn't get the shirt off without hurting you, I figured."

"Thanks, Doc," he replied, reaching for them. Then, he sucked in a quick breath of memory and froze. The pants had been cleaned, and in the pocket – Heart pumping harder, he struggled to sound as calm as possible, desperately hoping that Doc hadn't looked, didn't know. "I, uh, I had a bag in one of the pockets – "

The physician rubbed a hand over his mustache. "Oh, yeah. Blue or some such, fell out when I picked up your pants. I put it over there on the table." He gestured to the nightstand, and Matt looked where he pointed.

The velvet bag rested on the wood, strings drawn tight like he had left them, apparently undisturbed. Turning back to Doc, he studied his face, trying to read any comprehension, or – _heaven forbid_ – any _pity_ in those blue eyes. But the physician just shrugged and placed the pants in the lawman's hands.

"I can see you're not gonna take my advice – as usual. Just be careful. That wound's still susceptible to infection, you know."

Matt nodded and tugged on the rest of his clothing and boots, wondering how much Doc really knew and how much he just suspected. Not that it mattered anymore. Not that anything mattered quite as much anymore.

"I need to see about Buck," he said, more guilt pouring through him as he remembered he had left the horse tied up outside the Long Branch. Another move out of character for him.

"Oh, I had Moss come get him last night," Doc told him.

With an attempt at a smile – one he didn't think he quite succeeded in – he scooped up the elegant bag, trying not to feel the small ring inside, and shoved it in his pocket. "Thanks, Doc. Thanks for – "

The older man nodded and blinked. "Sure."

Each step from Doc's office to the street jarred him in all the places that hurt, his legs, his back, his ribs – and now his head and stomach. The vile concoction that was intended to sooth had offered only minimal relief. He supposed it was more than he had a right to expect. The morning sun glared down, its blinding rays adding their own torture. He tugged the hat down low over his eyes in an attempt to mute the effect on his pounding head, and he paced himself as normally as he could across Front Street toward the jail.

He needed time to think, to sort everything out. Kitty's timing, as usual, was perfect. He let his hand slip into his pocket and finger the bag, almost laughing at the irony. But Matt Dillon was not one to wallow in self-pity. Then, the miners struck again, and he winced, reflecting that maybe he did wallow for a while.

Logic told him that, at the moment, he couldn't do anything about the headache; he couldn't do anything about Kitty; but he could at least take care of the mound of paperwork that surely awaited him after a month on the trail. That small action would allow him at least some semblance of control. He issued up a thank you that it was still early enough for only a few citizens to venture out. That cut down on the need for putting on a civil face, which was just about the last thing he felt like doing.

Ducking inside the jailhouse door, he was met by the strong odor of Festus' coffee. Over the years, he had become accustomed to the deputy's stout brew, had even grown to like it – almost. But even tolerance was too much to expect this morning, and he swallowed, fighting back the unpleasant sensation the smell had produced.

"Well, if you ain't a sight fer sore eyes!" Festus pushed himself off the desk where he had been propped, the genuineness of his smile the first real welcome Matt had received since his return.

"Festus," he answered, hoping he managed somehow to mask both the emotional and physical turmoil he was in. Still, there was nothing he could do about the half-grown beard that scratched at his jaw and the haggard lines that creased a little more deeply into his face than they had yesterday.

Peering closely, the deputy offered, "Kin I gitcha a cuppa coffee?"

Barely resisting the urge to dash out back and heave out what little was left in his stomach, Matt grunted a "no thanks," hung his hat on the peg by the door, and did the same with his gun belt on the other hanger. Pressing his lips together against the aches, he let his body drop into the desk chair.

"You feelin' arright this mornin'," Festus asked, his frown clear evidence that he already knew the answer. "You wont me ta' git ya' some vittles from Delmonicos?"

"No," he snapped, more abruptly than he had intended. Trying to soften the impact, he added, "Maybe later. I need to catch up on some of this." His hand swept over the pile of paper. He purposely avoided asking Festus what had been happening in his absence.

"Ain't nothin' that in particular. Leastwise, nothin' that needs tendin' to before lunch."

Matt started to nod, but cut the movement short with the warning of pain from the back of his head. He stretched out his leg in an effort to relieve the throbbing there, but hissed as his boot kicked something hard beneath the desk and sent a jarring flash through the knee.

"What the – "

"Oh," Festus said, his voice falling. "That come fer ya' right after – " He stopped, unable to meet Matt's eyes . "Well, right after – "

But Matt had heard what he couldn't say. _Right after Kitty left._ Jaw tight, he pushed up from the desk and walked around to the front, dragging out a small – and all too familiar – trunk. "Who brought it?"

He heard Festus swallow hard. After a moment, the deputy said quietly, "Floyd."

Floyd. Then it came from – from the Long Branch.

"This chere's tha' key." Festus handed the small piece of metal to Matt, who took it between his forefinger and thumb. Bracing himself with a deep breath, he knelt on his good leg, released the straps, and eased the key into the lock, wishing he were alone for this moment.

When it clicked, he lifted the top slowly, letting his eyes fall on what he knew was there – but what he wished with all his heart wouldn't be. Sure enough, he looked down on a pile of neatly folded clothes. On the top lay three shirts, one rarely-worn light blue one, one white dress shirt, and a faded red work shirt. Just beneath them were a pair of dark dress pants and a newly-mended pair of tan pants. Under it all stretched his gray dress coat. He knew if he checked he'd find his best string tie in the breast pocket.

Another kick in the stomach. He fought not to double over from the impact, wrestled with that moment of breathlessness and nausea. But a man could get over a kick in the stomach. This kick he wasn't so sure he could overcome quite so easily.

"Matthew?" The concern in Festus' voice cut through his pain, and he glanced up, realizing that he gripped the table so hard his knuckles were white. Taking two breaths to steady himself, he rose, ignoring the ache in his knee. It seemed insignificant to the new pain that had settled in his chest.

"Lock that back up and have it sent to the Dodge House, will ya', Festus?" he asked, jerking his gun belt back off the hook and striding toward to door.

"The Dodge House? But – "

"The Dodge House," he repeated, letting his voice send a warning not to ask again.

Festus took the hint. "Sure. I'll do 'er, Matthew. You don't worry 'bout ennything."

He closed the door behind him, willing his legs to move, to take the steps he needed to take. Somehow, they obeyed, and only a couple of minutes later, he walked into the lobby of Dodge's best hotel, his saddlebag thrown over his shoulder.

Mr. Dobie himself stood at the front desk and offered him a friendly smile. "Well, Marshal," he greeted. "Welcome back. Didn't know you were – "

"I need a room." It was rude, he knew, but he needed to be alone, needed to deal with the emotions that drove through him, that threatened to rip away the layer of solid, reasonable lawman he had carefully protected for so many years.

Dobie stopped, momentarily nonplussed. Then he nodded and reached back to the keys as Matt lifted the pen by the register.

"Oh, you don't have to sign in, Marshal," Dobie protested.

But Matt had already written his name in bold script. "There's a trunk comin' over later. You can send it up."

"Certainly. Uh – is number nine all right?" he asked, peering up in obvious expectation of a response.

"Fine." He didn't care, as long as it was ready right then. "I'll need some water and soap sent up."

Dobie's voice fell. Matt had disappointed him somehow, but he didn't have the time to worry about it. "I'll have someone bring them up. May I ask – how long you'll be using the room?"

The marshal took the key Dobie handed him. "Put me on the monthly rate," he told him, ignoring the surprise in the manager's eyes.

Only on a rare occasion had he stayed at the Dodge House. If he wasn't bunking at the jail, Matt's nights had usually been spent in Kitty's room. Even though he certainly hadn't advertised it, he figured everyone probably knew that by now. Some years ago, he had taken to leaving a change of clothes with her, kept clean and fresh away from the dust of the jail. He supposed he'd have to find another place. For now, the Dodge House would do.

Climbing the stairs, he pretended not to see Dobie's curious gaze follow him up, decided he wouldn't worry about the hotel manager spreading the news that the marshal had taken a room. He didn't have the energy to spend on it. As he opened the door, though, he realized why Dobie had been so solicitous and eager for his response. Number nine was one of the Dodge House's biggest rooms. Generous. Well, he'd have to thank him later. Tossing his hat on the bed, he dug through his saddlebags, pulling out his shaving kit and laying the razor and brush on the tall dresser. His vest followed. Then he stripped off his shirt and let it drop onto the vest. The bandage across his ribs pulled, and he took further note of Doc's handiwork, almost smiling.

Someone knocked at the door, and he stepped to answer it, but all he found were the basin of water, a square of soap and a stack of towels. Grunting against the pain in his back when he bent, he lifted the basin and placed it on top of the marble top of the dresser. The towels and soap didn't demand quite so much effort.

Standing before the mirror, he found that, as usual, he had to bend his knees a bit and tilt the frame to see. With practiced motions, he lathered the cream, spreading it across his chin and jaw, and scraped the razor carefully across his skin. It would take more than one time as heavy as his beard had gotten, but it was a normal act, one he had been doing since he was fifteen. Somehow, now, it seemed painful. With a shudder he suddenly realized why. Something –- someone – was missing.

Kitty. When he had stayed the night with her, and hung around long enough in the morning for her to awaken, as well, she would perch on the end of the bed and watch him shave. Once he had asked her why, and she said it was the most inherently masculine thing a man could do. He had laughed and disagreed, promptly demonstrating to her what _he _thought the most masculine thing as man could do was. Afterward, as they lay entwined on her bed, she had stroked his chest and agreed with him. Abruptly, he wondered if she had found someone else to watch shave, or to –

"Damn!"

The razor slipped, nicking his chin and drawing a well of blood to mix pink with the white lather. He pressed a towel to the cut and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Twenty years. Twenty years he had known – and loved – Kitty Russell. In the early days they were both just kids, brash and eager and full of possibilities. As they matured, their relationship grew into mutual respect and understanding – and love. He knew what Kitty really wanted, knew what she had waited for, had hoped for. And he had every intention of giving it to her – one day.

It figured that the day he decided to give her what she wanted would be the day she decided she couldn't wait any longer. Unexpectedly, the burn of anger began deep inside him, building until he felt it pushing at him, demanding release. All of his life he had fought to keep his temper even, to regulate his reactions, to control his situations. It was probably the reason he was still around.

But the memories that he had fought back all morning bubbled up with the anger, shattering his attempt to keep them bottled. With a fierce growl, he swept a hand across the dresser top, sending the contents crashing to the floor. In the next second, he heard another crash and felt a sharp pain in his left hand. Breath heaving, he swayed against the unaccustomed fury that gripped him, closing his eyes to drag together the remnants of his control. When he opened them again, he stared at the mirror before him, its splintered shards of glass reflecting bizarre images of his own face. Stunned, he looked down at his left hand and watched, as if he were someone else, as the blood streamed over it from his sliced knuckles.

He exhaled heavily and let his shoulders slump. The moment had passed. The anger had been swallowed up by pain and regret. Cursing softly, he wrapped one of the towels around the wounds and leaned against the end of the bed, watching as the white cloth soaked red. How many stupid things could he do in one day?

But with the release of anger came the ability to think more clearly. East, Doc had said. She had taken the east-bound stage.

Jaw setting, he ignored the throbbing of his hand, the dripping of the towel, and jerked open his saddlebag again to pull out a clean shirt. It took some fumbling, but he managed to slide into without too much trouble. After another round of one-handed attempts, his gun belt was buckled and his hat was on his head. It took him only a few more seconds to stomp down the stairs and stride past a bewildered Mr. Dobie.

Bursting into the jail, he caught Festus in mid-sip, the coffee cup poised at his lips. "Can you get Buck saddled for me?"

A grin split the deputy's face, and he set the cup down quickly. "Now, I kin shorely do that fer ya', Matthew," he declared, hopping off the desk. His eyes fell to the bloody towel still wrapping the marshal's hand. "What in tarnation – "

"It's nothing," Matt said, waving off any concern. "I'm gonna get Doc to look at it while you're at Moss Grimmick's."

"Whar ya' goin'?" he asked, squinting up hopefully.

Matt turned to him, held his gaze with eyes that were no longer pained and weary, but hard and determined. He drew a breath and lifted his chin. "East."

**TBC**


	5. The Eyes of Dodge

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Five: The Eyes of Dodge**

POV: Festus

Spoilers: "Mannon;" "Exodus 21:22;" "The Disciple"

Rating: PG (Teen)

Disclaimer: Not my characters. Shoot.

**XXXX**

Deputy U. S. Marshal Festus Haggen stomped out of Delmonicos, belly puffed out happily to accommodate the steak and eggs, bacon, biscuits and coffee he had consumed at breakfast. Of course, he had turned down the side of toast. No need to fill up since he was acting marshal while Matthew was gone. As had become habit, his eyes sought out the railing outside the jail, hoping to see the big buckskin tied up there once again, but Ruth remained the lonely occupant. Clicking his tongue in disappointment, he continued his jingling walk.

"Mornin', Festus."

He had only gone a few steps when he heard the familiar voice greet him. Turning, he nodded to Doc Adams and waited for the older man to catch up with him. "Mornin', Doc. I wuz jest finishin' a tad of breakfast. Peers you slept too late ta' join me."

Doc grunted and continued walking. "I'll have you know I ate breakfast two hours ago, _after_ I cured Mrs. Cuthbert's headache and set Billy Blayton's broken leg. It's civil servants like you that lounge in bed 'till noon and have all that time on their hands."

"Time on their hands!" Festus spluttered. "Why you ol' scudder, at least I mek a honest livin'. Not like some folks what give out sugar pills an' tell poor ol' ailin' folks ta' take two an' call him in th' mornin', then charge 'em two whole dollers fer tellin' 'em they wuz sick, which they arreddy knowd ennyway – "

Doc peered up at him and squinted. "Honest living! Well, if Matt ever let the War Department know how you really spent their time, they'd be garnishing your wages all the way back to Texas!"

"Nobody ain't gonna gobbledeegook my wages," he mumbled, but the mention of Matthew's name took a little of the pleasure out of his verbal scuffling with Doc, and he let his face fall into serious lines. "You, uh, you ain't heerd from him, have ya'?"

The physician sobered, as well, and shook his head. "Not a word. I'm assuming from your question you haven't either?"

"Nope."

For another few breaths, both men stared at each other, their fears and hopes mingling silently between them. Fears that fought fiercely at too many horrible possibilities, and hopes that snatched vainly at too few. Festus couldn't help gazing again toward the jail. Buck still wasn't there. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever be there again.

**XXXX**

Matthew had been gone almost four weeks this time, longer than he had been gone any of the previous six journeys. "East," he had declared to Festus that day almost half a year ago, and headed out with new hope in his eyes, determined and confident. The deputy had watched as he cinched up the saddle girth around Buck and took a final look at his trail pack, completely confident in the marshal's ability. But there was a lot of east on the other side of Dodge, and even as long as Matt Dillon had been tracking, it was hard to start from nothing.

Nobody said it out loud, but all of Dodge knew what – or _who_ – he was looking for. And not one of them would have begrudged him the liberty of taking the personal time, but his own unbreakable sense of duty and responsibility demanded that he never left without having a professional mission as well.

Over the past six months, the marshal had personally assumed every assignment the Department of War sent him that pointed him in the direction of the sunrise. He could have passed off those duties to Festus or Newly; he had that authority and had done so in the past, but he didn't even suggest it anymore. No one asked why. No one had to.

Each time he returned, they sensed the addition of one more layer of lawman, one more coat on the mask he had worn since he had returned from that first search, exhausted, battered – and alone. He never shared what he had found. No one had to ask what he _hadn't_ found. After a few hours' rest, he had stepped back onto Front Street as if it were any other day.

Four weeks after that first trip, he was off chasing another fugitive headed toward Missouri. Ten days after that, he returned, the body of the fugitive slung over a weary bay horse that trailed behind Buck. Again, he offered no explanations of what had happened, spun no tales of the adventure. And so the pattern continued, with the marshal conducting business in Dodge for a few days, perhaps weeks, then riding out again for an even longer period of time.

**XXXX**

And now he was gone again, four weeks into tracking Ed Boulder, a three-time murderer who escaped from prison in Lawrence and was last seen headed southeast.

As they continued down the boardwalk, the deputy allowed a small burp to escape, which Doc acknowledged with a shake of his head. When they reached the jail, Adams lowered himself into one of the chairs by the barred windows, and Festus propped in another and fished out a half-whittled stick and his knife, grasping the future work of art in his left hand and the instrument in his right.

They relaxed in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching the normal comings and goings of the citizens of Dodge. Finally, Doc stirred a bit and cleared his throat.

"Been a while this time."

A sudden hope flared in the deputy's chest, hope that he hadn't considered until Doc's observation. He stopped whittling and looked up. "Ya' don't s'pose 'at means he's a found her, do ya'?"

The older man swished a hand over his mustache and shook his head. "I don't know, Festus. I hope – I hope if he's supposed to find her, he does."

"What's 'at s'pose ta' mean?"

"Well, she left, didn't she?"

"Wael, o'course she left," Festus agreed impatiently. "Ain't that whut got us in this chere mess in th' first place?"

"I mean, what if she doesn't want him to find her? There are lots of places to go where people can just disappear. Lot of big cities back east."

He sighed. "I ain't never thot of it atta way. Her not wantin' ta' be found, that is."

"I just hope Matt doesn't have an even harder time if he does find her."

Again, Festus frowned. "What do ya' mean by that?"

"It's been half a year. He's been on the trail almost half _that_ time and hasn't found anything, yet. And Matt always finds his man."

"'Ceptin' this time he's a'lookin' fer a woman," Festus noted, not realizing the depth of his statement.

"Yeah."

"I jest kaint figger why she done it."

Doc tugged at his ear and sighed. "Lots of reasons, I suppose, Festus. She's been – " He looked up, as if deciding if he should be frank or not. After a moment, he nodded. "She's been with Matt a long time. I think maybe she kept thinkin' one day he'd get tired of being marshal. Tired of coming back all shot up and half dead." His chest rumbled in a low chuckle. "Can't imagine why."

"Aw, Doc, you knowd he don't git no pleasure from – "

"Course not. Course not. Matt's a rare breed, Festus. I've never known any man like him. He has the physical ability and skills to be the biggest, meanest, and probably best outlaw this side of – well _both_ sides of the Mississippi. Sure could make a heap more money than he does working for the government."

Festus frowned. "Ol' Matthew'd never – "

"I didn't say he would. I just said he _could_. But instead, he's the most honest and just and fair man I've ever known. And we both know there are only a handful of men who have ever handled a gun better. At least until – "

The deputy winced in acknowledgement of the doctor's insinuation. "He's still good, Doc. He worked that arm back almost ta' where it wuz." Festus had watched Matthew practice for hours on end until the arm was swollen and aching, and then he'd still go at it more until he was satisfied.

"_Almost_," Doc echoed. "I just don't know. If he has to face another Mannon or a Frank Reardon – I just don't know." His pale blue eyes looked out over the street, as if remembering something. "I think maybe that Kitty didn't know, either. I think maybe that's why – "

Bristling, Festus protested, "Miz Kitty wouldn't leave him fer that, Doc. Not jus' 'cause he ain't as fast as he wuz."

"No, not because of that, but because of what might happen as a result. How long do you think it'll take before someone figures it out? Before some young, fresh wannabe gunslinger comes riding in lookin' to be the man who kills the great Matt Dillon?" His head fell, and he examined his hands absently. "I don't think she could wait for that. I don't think she could bear – "

He looked up, then stopped abruptly, eyes locking on something down the street. Festus followed his gaze and felt a grin and a grimace compete on his lips. A very familiar form had rounded the corner, a tall man on a big horse, one hand on the reins, the other leading a second horse, burdened with a body draped across its saddle. Dillon swayed slightly, his shoulders slumped, his head down. Along the street and on the boardwalk, people stopped whatever they were doing and let their eyes follow the lead horse and rider.

**XXXX**

The eyes of Dodge had always followed Matt Dillon. The obvious reason was because he was a physically imposing man, tall, broad, handsome – hard to ignore. The way he carried himself spoke of self-confidence tempered with humility and a bit of nonchalance. But also, by watching Matt Dillon, there was a fairly good chance a person might see a little excitement: the break up of a brawl, the rousting of rowdy cowboys, or – best of all – a shootout in the street. Yes, there were quite a number of benefits to watching Marshal Dillon.

For the past six months, though, the reasons had changed. Only those folks new to Dodge were unaware of Kitty Russell, and they were quickly enlightened by the other citizens. Now, some of the eyes that followed the lawman watched in curiosity; others watched in sympathy; and more than a few – women anyway – watched in blatant invitation. He ignored them all.

And they began to realize that although Matt Dillon, the marshal, remained with them, Matt Dillon, the man, had disappeared somewhere out on the prairie.

He still acted like the marshal; he still _was_ the marshal. Nothing had changed in the execution of his duties. Dodge could still count on him – and his deputies – for protection. He remained polite and pleasant to the citizens, automatically nodding and touching the brim of his hat for the ladies, but the easy smile and warm eyes that had greeted them for twenty years had given way to tightly pressed lips and a troubled brow.

Things had changed, but that just made them want to watch him more.

**XXXX**

Now they watched with concern as he coaxed the familiar buckskin past them, the gazes of both man and mount angled toward the ground.

Doc was off the boardwalk first, hurrying in his own shuffling way out into the street and toward them. Only a step behind, Festus caught and passed the older man, coming up on Buck's left side. He winced at the pain and fatigue etched on the lawman's face, at the clenched jaw and tight eyes.

"Matthew?"

"Matt?"

The marshal glanced over at them.

"You okay?" Doc asked, even though they could all see the answer.

"Yeah," Dillon responded, voice strained. Doubting the truth of that, Festus eyed him closely, but could see no obvious injury.

Buck, looking as worn out as his rider, plodded up to the rail outside the jail, no longer hesitating when he passed the Long Branch.

"Who's that, Matthew?" Festus asked, cocking his head toward the dead man.

"Slim Gallagher," Dillon answered without looking back.

He lifted an eyebrow in surprised. "He ain't th' feller ya' went out after."

"No." If they expected more of an explanation, they were disappointed.

"What about Ed Boulder?" Festus prodded.

"Left him outside Kansas City." His tone let them all know he hadn't left the outlaw breathing. Dillon hooked a thumb in the general direction of the body behind him. "Get him over to Percy's for me, will ya', Festus?" he asked, swinging his right leg over the horse and sliding to the ground.

No one in the growing crowd could have missed the audible grunt that accompanied the move. Festus watched as the marshal stood next to his mount for a moment, hands on the horn as if Buck were the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Alarmed, the deputy forced himself not to reach out to the man, knowing Matthew wouldn't like that at all. Instead, he threw a casual tone into his voice and suggested, "I'll tek ol' Buck ta' Moss's fer ya', too, so's ya' kin git ta' them posters whut come in while you wuz gone." Silently, he willed the marshal to accept the offer.

Dillon shot a glare his way. Festus prepared to fight the protest, but their eyes met, and Matthew read his friend's intent. Straightening stiffly, the exhausted man nodded. "Thanks," he mumbled, pushing away from the horse and taking a step toward the jail.

– and almost collapsing in the street.

They all watched in shock as his right leg buckled under him, pitching him toward the ground. Instinctively, he threw out a hand to grab the rail, barely keeping his body from sprawling into the dust. Festus lunged for him, now unconcerned about Dillon's desire not to show weakness. Too dadburned late for that. But the big man waved him away, gritted his teeth, re-set his grip on the rail, and heaved himself back to his feet.

"Matt?" Doc ignored the refusal of help, catching the lawman's elbow anyway.

"I'm fine," he ground out.

Adams didn't drop his hand. "Sure. Sure. How about we just go on into the jail and see if Festus' coffee is anywhere close to drinkable?"

Dillon didn't answer, but threw Doc a scalding glare, hauled himself up onto the boardwalk and limped heavily through the door that a helpful bystander opened for him. There was no masking his pain this time. Festus looked again to see any sign of a wound, any blood on the grimy tan pants, but he still saw nothing.

"Don't you worry 'bout Buck," he called after the marshal just as the door closed behind Doc and Dillon. "I'll tek good care of him."

Not receiving a response, and not necessarily expecting one, he turned to grasp the tired horse's reins. Just beyond, another set of eyes watched. Leaning against an open door at the Long Branch, Hannah took in the scene, her brow drawn down, her face strangely troubled.

Festus wondered briefly at that. After all, the marshal had made it a point to avoid the saloon unless absolutely necessary. As far as the deputy knew, he and Hannah had only a passing acquaintance. But the new owner – he supposed she wasn't that new anymore – seemed unusually concerned about the marshal.

He didn't suppose that the Matthew and Hannah – but then he clicked his tongue and chuckled at the absurdity of that notion. No, she must just be worried about him like any other citizen would be, and he appreciated her for it.

When Slim Gallagher had been duly delivered to Percy Crump's, and the outlaw's horse left back at Moss Grimmick's, Festus headed back toward the jail, anxious to check on Matthew. Just as he reached the boardwalk, Doc shuffled out, pulling the door closed behind him. His face was drawn, his blue eyes sad and worried.

"How is he?" Festus asked, bracing for the answer.

The physician ran a hand over his mustache and motioned the deputy on down the boardwalk and away from the pane-less windows. "Well, he's exhausted mainly."

"He ain't hurt agin?" He surely had seemed hurt, even though the deputy never saw any obvious injury.

"Nothin' new, anyway," Doc said. "His back and leg are pretty bad. More than he'll let on, I'm certain. A long ride – and who knows what kind of fight that Gallagher put up."

"Not ennuf of one," Festus observed. "But he'll be arrite?"

"Physically, if he'll let himself rest a while."

"What ain't you sayin', Doc?"

Adams shook his head, looking down toward the street. "I just don't know how much longer he can keep this up. He's been going at it six months now. His body needs time to recover." He sniffed, and added quietly, "I don't think he's sleepin' much, either."

Festus had to agree. When Matthew was in town, he spent more time in the jailhouse than he did in his room at the Dodge House – and what little sleep he was getting had been on that old cot, not the more comfortable mattress in Mr. Dobie's establishment.

"Doc," he asked, hating himself for even considering the possibility, "what if'n he never finds her?"

After a deep breath, the doctor replied, "I don't know, Festus. His body's just about given out, but it's his eyes I'm worried about."

A new worry shot through the deputy. "What's wrong with his eyes?"

"Oh, I don't mean his vision. I mean his hope. When I looked at him in there – well, his eyes were – they were – " He took in a breath that caught in his throat before he could clear it. After a few seconds, he finished quietly, "Kitty's not in those eyes anymore."

His own eyes watering, Festus laid a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. "He's jus' tired, Doc," he suggested, then added hopefully, "doncha think?"

But Doc didn't answer.

They stood together for a few minutes, wondering if it were even possible to put Kitty back in those eyes – and fearing what would happen if it weren't.

**TBC**


	6. A Bottle of Bourbon and Two Full Glasses

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Six: A Bottle of Bourbon and Two Full Glasses**

POV: Hannah

Spoilers: "The Bullet;" "Hostage!;" "Hidalgo;" "The Disciple;"

Rating: PG (Teen)

Disclaimer: Not my characters.

Leaning against the open swinging doors of the Long Branch, Hannah watched the citizens of Dodge disperse, satisfied that their marshal was back, but uneasy that he had returned in questionable health. Doc stayed inside the jail for another few minutes, reappeared just as Festus came back from Percy Crump's. She studied them as the made their way down the boardwalk, deep in conversation, furrowed brows telegraphing the topic of their discussion. It was the first time she'd really seen Matt Dillon anything but in complete control, but she supposed there was only so much even the strongest will could take before it collapsed against the overwhelming power of too much pain and too much exhaustion and too much disappointment.

Doc had left the jail too soon to have tended to any serious wounds, so the marshal must not have been badly injured, even though he looked mighty rough. She remembered the clues Kitty had suggested to indicate if his back and leg were bothering him. This time, though, what she had seen provided considerably more evidence than pressed lips and a tight jaw.

As her gaze followed the marshal's two best friends, she considered what she had learned of Matt Dillon in the seven months she had been in Dodge. First impressions weren't always the most accurate, she knew, but in this case, very little had occurred to change her opinion about the lawman. Past the obvious physical attributes – and there were plenty – he possessed the courtesy of a gentleman, the honesty of a preacher, the courage of a soldier, the wisdom of a judge, and the skills of a gunslinger. Not for the first time, she wondered why Kitty had really left, wondered if her own suspicions were anywhere close to being true. If they were, by now –

Sighing, she eased the doors closed and stepped back down onto the floor of the saloon, her eyes just catching the quick turn of Floyd's head. He had been watching her as she watched Doc and Festus.

Making a sudden decision, she tossed a nod toward an empty table – it was early enough that most tables were empty – and said, "Bring a bottle of rye, Floyd, and join me."

If that request surprised him, he didn't show it. In fact, it almost seemed as if he had expected the invitation. In a moment, they were both seated and enjoying the first sip of the liquor. Hannah noted that Floyd waited for her to start the dialogue.

After a moment's consideration to give her brain a chance to change its mind, Hannah leaned back in the chair and studied the glass in front of her. "You've been around Dodge for a while, haven't you, Floyd?"

He nodded. "I have. Not with the Long Branch the whole time, though. I just became head barkeep after Sam died."

"But you've been in town?" she confirmed.

"Sure."

"Did everybody – well, did many people know about – about the marshal and Kitty?"

Floyd snorted a laugh. "'Bout all of Kansas, I suppose. It was the worst kept secret in Dodge, anyway."

"If everybody knew, then why – "

"I always figured the marshal was tryin' to protect Miss Kitty. Didn't want her to be used by any of his enemies – and he has plenty just waitin' to get their revenge on him. Sometimes just for roustin' 'em out of a saloon. But mostly for sending 'em to prison. It's a sure bet he don't sit with his back to the door."

What a burden to carry, she thought sadly. How tormented you could become, knowing at any time, at any place, someone might be waiting to kill you. But he didn't seem tormented. Grimacing, she amended in her mind that he didn't seem tormented _by the possibility of dying_. There was, however, definitely torment from a different source.

"So everyone knew, did they? How?"

"What do ya' mean?"

"I mean how'd everyone know? Kitty said – I mean, I _heard_ they were discreet."

Again, Floyd chuckled. "Well, I suppose that's a relative term. They were careful, I guess. Especially in public."

She wondered how much he knew about them when they weren't in public.

"Ya' can't hide somethin' that's all over ya', though." At her lifted brow, he continued. "The way they looked at each other, the way she would lay her hand on his arm, the way –" He shrugged. "'Course, in my position, I may have seen a little more than most people."

The sudden pink to his cheeks let her know he had seen quite a bit more. "In the past few years, they haven't been exactly subtle. When he took that bullet in the back and Doc loaded him up on the train to Denver, she wouldn't even hear of stayin' behind. And not even Doc would try to talk her out of it."

Hannah's eyes widened. "Bullet in the back?"

"'Bout three years ago. Almost paralyzed him. Doc got it out. That's all I know, but I figure there was more to it than that. He tries not to let on, but you can see it still bothers him from time to time. Anyway, he was laid up for a few weeks; then he up and went down into Mexico chasing some bandito. Came back all shot up again."

"He's had a few injuries, has he?" Of course, Kitty had already indicated that.

This time it was Floyd's eyes that grew wide. "Oh, Miss Hannah, I don't suppose even Ol' Doc's kept count of how many bullets he's dug outta the marshal."

Well, that certainly explained the lawman's pain. After hearing from Kitty and now Floyd about the abuse Dillon's big body had endured, she wondered how the man was even walking at all.

By this time, Floyd had warmed to his subject and continued, his eyes looking over her shoulder and into the past. "'Course, after Jude Bonner, nobody had any doubts about him and Miss Kitty."

"Jude Bonner?' She'd never heard of him, but the ominous tone of his voice told her his tale would not be pretty.

The barkeeper's face changed, and she was shocked to see black hate darken those normally pleasant features as he launched into a terrible, heartbreaking story. Tears welled in her eyes when he told about what had happened to "the marshal's woman," and she remembered Kitty's simple statement to her: _ "Things have – happened – to me because of who and what he is. Bad things." _As the horrors of the event unfolded, she decided that Kitty had quite a command of understatement.

Hannah could not keep the horror from her face as Floyd related the details of the ordeal, of the scene there on Front Street when Bonner dumped Kitty in front of the town and shot her down.

"Dear Lord," she whispered, nausea boiling in her throat.

Floyd's eyes were still seeing past her, still reliving that evening. "When the marshal got back, he didn't say a word, just ran up Doc's stairs. He stayed with her all night. We didn't know if she was dead or alive. Next mornin', he stepped out onto the landing at the top of the stairs. Miss Hannah, I ain't never seen such a look on anybody's face as I seen on his."

She could not begin to imagine.

"If Jude Bonner had been standing there, I don't doubt the marshal would have torn him to pieces with his bare hands."

"What'd he do?" Obviously, since Matt Dillon wasn't serving a life sentence for murder in the state prison, he didn't kill Bonner – at least not in cold blood.

"Well, he stood there a minute, long enough for most of us ta' see he wasn't wearin' his badge any more."

She tried to picture Matt Dillon without that piece of metal on his chest, had trouble doing it. The symbolism of his taking it off was not lost on her. "He went after him," she realized.

"He did. He went after him not as the marshal, but as – as a man." Floyd opened his eyes wider to emphasize his approval of Dillon's actions.

Maybe he _did_ kill him, Hannah re-assessed.

"He rode out by himself, but Festus and Newly – then the most of the town – rode out after him. Sam told a few of us ta' stay at the saloon in case any of Bonner's gang tried to come back around."

"Did he – did he catch him?" She wasn't sure if she wanted him to or not.

"He caught him. Sam said when they reached them he and Bonner had 'bout near beat each other ta' death, and the marshal was fixin' ta' smash in that bastard's skull with a big old rock."

"And?" Hannah prodded, enthralled despite herself, halfway hoping Dillon had performed the execution right there.

Floyd sighed. "Festus stopped him. Sam reckoned it was a near thing."

With a disturbing pang of disappointment, she asked, "What about Kitty?"

The blackness had lightened in his face and he almost smiled. "She's a strong woman." Hannah heard the admiration in his tone. "Somehow, she recovered." Shaking his head, he added, "I don't figure the marshal let her get more'n ten feet away from him or Sam for months. Drove her crazy." But he quickly grew serious again. "You could see it shook him pretty good – and there ain't too much that can shake Matt Dillon."

"What he had always feared," she mused.

"Yes, ma'am. I reckon it was."

"And yet, after all that – now she's left. I don't understand."

"You and me both." His eyes grew sad. "Seems like they'd already been through the worst."

Her thoughts drifted again to Kitty's fears, to her supposed reasons for leaving. "The marshal's arm – how bad was it?"

"Bad enough. From what Doc said, he couldn't use it at all right after the shooting."

"It seems fine now."

A dubious brow lifted. "I suppose. Don't guess he's had to outdraw anyone recently. At least not in town."

"You figure someone will come gunning for him?" she asked.

Shrugging, Floyd said, "They always do."

"Can he take them?"

"Before, maybe, but – "

Hannah nodded in understanding. "Before his arm was hurt."

But Floyd shook his head. "Before Miss Kitty left."

Keeping her voice low so that only he could hear, she said, "He loved her very much."

The bartender nodded, his gaze drifting toward the doors as if he could see across to the jail. "He still does."

The stark statement struck her with its simplicity. _"He still does."_

Well, that did it. She had made a promise to Kitty six months ago, a promise she had questioned as soon as she had laid eyes on Matt Dillon, a promise she now knew she could no longer keep.

With a deep breath and click of her tongue, Hannah pushed up from the table and walked behind the bar. "Thanks for the talk, Floyd."

His eyes followed her movement, brow questioning. "Sure."

Reaching under the counter, she pulled out the very best bottle of bourbon they sold, gathered two shot glasses in her other hand and marched toward the doors. "If I land out in the middle of Front Street in a couple of minutes, drag me back in here, will ya'?" she threw out as she stepped into the daylight, not waiting to hear Floyd's response.

A couple of folks watched her curiously as she crossed the street. She ignored them.

Pausing just briefly at the door, she took a breath and eased it open, not sure what she might find, ready to back out if necessary, but a little too nervous to speculate about what might constitute "necessary." Although she had never been inside the jailhouse, she'd peeked in the windows before, out of simple curiosity, and she recalled that there was single iron bed to the left. The condition he was in when stumbled through that door, she didn't expect to find him anywhere else.

Sure enough, as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, she saw the long, solid frame sprawled out on the mattress, legs stretching all the way to the edge and a little past, one arm flung out over the side. Quietly, she closed the door and set the bottle and glasses on the table between the marshal and her. Then, she stepped closer to study him for a moment.

Since it was not his practice to frequent the Long Branch socially anymore, she had seen him this close only on the occasions when he was breaking up fights. Looking at him now, she saw that he had aged in the past six months, the lines of his face etched more deeply, the touch of gray in his hair now overtaking the brown, the world-weariness that he occasionally allowed to show now invading almost every move he made.

She figured he had literally collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to clean up at all from the trail. He hadn't even taken the time to remove his gun belt. A three-days' growth of beard shadowed his jaw, dust and grime smudged his forehead. There was a cut just below his left eye and a couple of raw scrapes reddening his cheek. The knuckles of the hand that rested on his stomach were torn and bloody. Slim Gallagher had apparently not gone down without a fight.

Even though she had never had children of her own, Hannah felt the unaccustomed motherly urge to brush his hair back and whisper soothing words, trying to comfort him in some way, to provide a balm for the pain. Instead, she remained still, watching him. After a few minutes, her perusal was interrupted by a groan. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and forehead, his brow came down and his head turned one way, then the other.

"No – " he mumbled, legs moving slightly.

Unsure whether to wake him or not, Hannah watched as his agitation deepened, listened as his groans grew louder. He grew more restless, arms pushing through the air, as if he were fighting someone. When he started to thrash, she began to worry that he would injure himself.

Then, in an agonized voice, he cried out, "Kitty! No! Let her go – God, please, no!"

Spurred into action, the saloon owner reached out to him, touched his shoulder to shake him from the nightmare, to rescue him from the distress he was in.

That was a mistake.

With reflexes so fast she wasn't sure she had even seen them, his hand jerked the gun from the holster, and she found herself staring down the end of a Colt, its barrel black and cold and terrifying.

"Marshal!" she yelled, heart pounding harder and louder than she could ever remember.

He half-sat, his eyes wild, his mouth open, his breath coming fast. She tried to look at the trigger to see if he was about to pull it, but her gaze remained locked down that long, deadly tunnel.

"Marshal," she tried again, her voice cracking.

His chest heaved, his eyes bore into hers, his teeth gritted. Dear God, he was going to kill her.

Somehow, finding her voice once more, she said softly, "Matt."

For a long moment, the gun stayed trained directly on her heart, but finally, slowly, those blue eyes focused on her face. The steady hand that held the weapon began to tremble, a move that spread to the rest of his arm. He dropped the gun and fell back onto the bed, groaning either in emotional or physical pain – she wasn't sure which.

"Oh God," she heard him gasp as his head hit the pillow.

When she was pretty sure she was not going to faint or throw up, she pulled up a chair and sat, her own hands none too steady. "Marshal?" she asked quietly, gently.

Throwing an arm over his eyes, he mumbled, "Go away."

Putting on a much braver front that she could actually back up, she ignored him and said, "I, uh, I brought you a present."

For a moment, he ignored her right back, but after another minute, his arm lifted and he opened one eye. In answer to his unspoken question, she nodded toward the bottle. The amber liquid sat invitingly on the table, but he only groaned again and shook his head.

"No thanks."

Her thoughts brought back the image of him walking across Front Street from Doc's office the day after he had found out from her that Kitty had left, and she wondered if he'd sworn off the stuff after that. Certainly, she had never seen him drinking at the Long Branch. Of course, he'd only ventured into the Long Branch to break up fights and drag away ugly drunks.

"I figured you might could use a drink," she told him, forcing the casual tone.

"Go away," he repeated, the words a little more precise this time.

"It's my best bourbon," she added pointedly, wondering if he would catch on.

After a couple of beats, the arm came down slowly, and he pulled his body up onto his elbows, his gaze searching her face. "What?"

"Bourbon."

Their eyes met, and in that connection, she saw sudden comprehension, watched as the emotion flooded him, as his cheeks flushed and his eyes glistened. She saw him take a breath, swallow, and take another breath.

When he had regained control, he began, in a weary voice, "I'm not gonna discuss – "

"Oh, I'm not here to talk about anything," she assured him, having to glance away from his doubtful squint. "I just figured I'd drop by and be neighborly and show my appreciation for ya' helpin' me out with the rowdies at my place."

_My place. _Damn. She bit her tongue at those last two words when he flinched.

"That's my job," he told her, voice flat.

"Well, there's doin' your job and there's doin' your job. I ain't never seen a lawman that does his job like you." She raised her eyebrows to emphasize how much she meant the words.

Sitting up completely now, and swinging his legs to the floor, he dropped his head and ran a hand through his hair. Scooting the chair closer to the table, Hannah grasped the bottle and opened it.

"Look, Hannah, I appreciate it, but – "

"Kitty Russell loves you." Well, she had meant to bring that up with a little more finesse.

His head jerked up, anger firing from those eyes. "Damn it, I told you I'm not gonna discuss – "

"Who's discussin'? I'm just talkin'."

He stared at her, nonplussed. Before he could respond, she continued, "You're a fool, Matt Dillon."

That point didn't help his mood. He stood suddenly, and she bit back a gasp as the impact of just how tall he was hit her. But the pain that apparently swept over him claimed some of that anger. His teeth clacked together in a hard grimace as he reached behind to brace his back.

"I've – been – told that before," he grunted past the discomfort.

"Well, I'm just sayin' that that woman loves you with all her heart."

Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the exhaustion, but she thought she saw cracks in the shield he had erected. Instead of throwing her out into the street, he just muttered, "Not anymore."

Not one to waste an opening, no matter how narrow, Hannah, quickly opened the bottle and poured a generous amount of bourbon into each glass. "Sit. You look like you need to."

Indeed, he swayed precariously. To her surprise, he followed orders, his body falling heavily into the offered chair.

"Listen, Marshal, this is not really any of my business – "

"You're damn right, it's not," he snapped.

Now that she'd jumped in after him, Hannah was damned if she would let him drown. "But that woman is desperately in love with you and you've got to find her. Especially now that – " She stumbled to a halt, unwilling to tell him something she didn't know for certain herself.

His eyes narrowed. "Now that what?"

Damn. Not ready or willing to share with him her speculations, she played her trump card and said boldly, "I know about Jude Bonner."

He stood again, this time so hard and fast that his thighs caught the table and almost upended it. She had never seen such fury in any human being's eyes before, and she wondered if this were the face Floyd and the others had seen when Dillon stood at the top of those stairs, determined to find Jude Bonner and kill him. Unable to keep from shrinking back, she held her breath.

Hatred clashed with pain, twisting the handsome features. "_Never _say that name again," he spit out between clenched teeth. "_Never."_

Later, as she replayed out the scene in her mind, she realized she must have been crazy even to remain in there, much less keep pushing at the furious man. Nevertheless, that's just what she had done.

"I heard you went after him," she pressed, convinced, even in the face of his anger, that he wouldn't hurt her.

He turned away, his hands clenching into fists. Well, she was pretty sure he wouldn't hurt her, anyway. "I said – "

"You left your badge and went after him because you were Kitty's man, not because you were the marshal. You wanted to kill him."

The fists shook as he stood there, and she watched the motion spread to his entire body, saw those broad shoulders quake violently.

"You wanted to kill him," she repeated, somehow needing to know.

The big body shuddered, and the fuse she had lit finally reached power and exploded. Spinning around, he slammed his hands down on the table, leaned his weight on them and stared at her, his face only inches from hers.

"Yes! Damn it, yes!"he snarled. "I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill that son of a bitch for what he had done! I wanted to beat the hell out of him until I smashed him into the pile of worthless shit that he was! I wanted to tear him limb from limb for what Kitty – "

He choked on her name, his eyes widening in horror at the realization of what he had just done, of what he had just said, and who he had said it to. Stumbling back, he fell hard against the brick wall of the jail office, chest heaving, eyes closed.

Stunned, Hannah could only watch, mouth open, blood surging, heart pounding. Dear God, what had she done?

They remained where they were for at least five whole minutes, Hannah sitting at the table, the marshal slumped against the wall. Neither of them moved, neither said a word. Only the steady ticking of the clock gave any indication that time moved on.

Finally, her voice barely audible, Hannah said, "You were ready to give up the law for vengeance. Why couldn't you give it up for love?"

He didn't answer right away, didn't even give evidence that he had heard her. But after a few seconds, he slipped his right hand into the front pocket of his pants. When he removed it, he held a small bag, blue velvet and elegant. With a quick flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the table in front of her. His eyes lifted to stare out toward the jail windows.

Slowly, almost reverently, Hannah let her fingers inch toward the bag, tugging open the strings that secured the top and emptying the contents. A gold band rolled onto the wood, taking her breath with both its simple, delicate beauty and with its obvious intent. Holding it carefully, she raised her gaze to look at him, understanding too much now.

"You _could_," she realized in a whisper. "You could give it up for love. You were going to after that last trip."

He didn't answer. Didn't have to. Oh, Lord, what irony.

"You have to find her," Hannah urged, suddenly desperate that Kitty know, that she understand what she had done. "You have to tell her."

His head dropped and he groaned, sinking back onto the bed, forearms resting on his thighs. "It's too late," he mumbled, his anger spent, leaving only exhaustion and despair in its place. "She's gone."

"You have to look for her."

His chest jerked in something that might have been a humorless laughed. "What do ya' think I've been doin' for six months?" One hand lifted, tugging through his hair. "I've looked – I've looked in Topeka, Lawrence, Kansas City, Saint Joseph, Saint Louis. I've sent telegrams to Springfield, Nashville, Philadelphia, Boston, even New York – nothing."

She hesitated only a moment on her next words. "She didn't tell me straight out, but –– but I think she was going home." She paused, waiting for him to jump at her revelation, the city's name on her lips.

But he only shook his head and looked down at his hands. "New Orleans was the first place I checked."

Well, of course. She wondered why on earth she hadn't realized he would know immediately that she might go there. But if he'd checked already, and hadn't found anything –

"I sent a telegram to the chief of police six months ago." His voice fell off as he added, "And five months ago, and four months – "

"Nothing?" Hannah asked, confused. She had been positive Kitty was there."

He shook his head again. "No Kitty Russell. No Kathleen Russell. I had him check all records, even – " He swallowed. "— even death certificates."

Resisting the urge to place her hand on a wide shoulder, she peeled back the layers of memory, searching for any clue she could give him, any key to unlock the door that barred him from her. A new idea crept in, one she at first dismissed, then slowly considered.

"What if – " she began, then stopped, uncertain.

He continued to stare down for a few moments. Then, as if he had just heard her, he raised his eyes. "What if what?"

The glimmer of hope he allowed to touch the blue gaze was almost painful. Hannah felt the weight of importance on what she might suggest.

"What if – she used another name?"

He pressed his lips together for a moment before he responded. "I've tried that, but it could be anything," he murmured, weariness creeping into his tone. She wished suddenly she hadn't said anything. "I've used names of some of the girls who've worked for her, names of folks from Dodge. And, of course, her own name – her 'maiden' name, so to speak – "

Abruptly, his body jerked straighter on the bed, and he lifted his eyes to her. "No – "

"Marshal?" she asked, alarm and excitement quickening her pulse.

"She might have used – but would she want – even though she – "

Hannah couldn't decide if his stumbling words were encouraging or not. He'd been through a lot, after all. Maybe he needed to lie down again. But before she could suggest it, he pushed up from the bed, letting the grimace show freely, too focused on his thoughts to worry about it.

"Thank you, Hannah," he said, rising to his full height, energy firming his moves in a way she hadn't seen in months. And he hadn't even had a drop of bourbon.

She frowned up, her neck craning to look at him. "What for?"

The smile that curved his lips was genuine. It was the first time she'd seen it, and she couldn't get over how beautiful it was. "For trusting me."

Any doubts she might have harbored dissolved. "So you're goin' to New Orleans," she surmised.

"I have another telegram to send first, but, yeah, I'm goin' to New Orleans."

"What about the War Department?" she reminded, knowing that in the past he had dutifully waited until he had an assignment before going out.

The eyes that look back at her burned with purpose. She had a feeling she was looking into the eyes of the real Matt Dillon. "To hell with the War Department."

Open-mouthed, she could only watch as he stuffed his boots back on and buckled his gun belt with the smooth dexterity of an expert. But she had to catch her breath at the way he strode – _strode_ – to the door, the renewed focus overriding the old pain. Every move he made spoke of strength. As he lifted his hat from the hook, she rose from her chair and laid a hand on his arm, turning him back to her.

"Marshal," she began, then took a breath, wondering if she should do it, if she should share her suspicions with him, suspicions that had nagged her for half a year. But again, she wasn't sure, couldn't tell him for certain. What if she was wrong?

After a beat, she smiled at him and finished, "Be careful."

He hesitated, eyes narrowing, but she kept quiet, just nodding in reassurance. Finally, he returned the nod and was gone, leaving Hannah to her own thoughts, a bottle of bourbon and two full glasses her only companions.

If her suspicions were true, he'd find out soon enough.

**TBC**


	7. Strand of Steel

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Seven: Strand of Steel**

POV: Kitty

Spoilers: "There Was Never a Horse;" "The Badge;" "The Disciple"

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Matt and Kitty are not my characters, although I did create a few new ones for this story.

**XXXX**

The cards slid from her fingers with long-practiced dexterity, quick and smooth. If she had any reason to cheat, she could have done it without a single person in the room being any the wiser. But she was dealing straight tonight – and only for a couple of hours, she had promised herself. Already, she was feeling the need – both physically and emotionally – to get home, or at least to get to the Creole townhouse that Ira owned on Dauphine Street. It was still hard to think of it as home.

Of course, she would not even have considered stepping onto the _New Orleans Lady_ so soon, except that they were in a bind what with Michel Rousseau coming down with The Grippe on their busiest night. Ira had tried to talk her out of it, had assured her they could make do without their main dealer, but this was her investment, too, and, besides, it was only two hours. But her body kept telling her those two hours were already up.

Even though the House had won most of the hands, her table seemed to draw the biggest crowds, mostly of men of varied ages who took more interest in the dealer than in the game. Accustomed to male attention for most of her life, she barely gave the hovering gents a nod, having no desire to entice.

"Everything all right, Kitty?"

The quiet voice drew her gaze up to find Ira Pennington's soft brown eyes frowning down at her, concern playing in them. His raven hair was slicked back in the style of a gentleman, his matching mustache smartly waxed. She smiled fondly at him, forever grateful for his kindness toward her. "Sure."

"Not too tired?"

"I'm okay."

He leaned down, his shoulder brushing hers. "I'll call for a carriage. You shouldn't have come tonight."

"I'm fine, really," she insisted, but her words sounded thin. At Ira's raised brow, she capitulated. "All right. I'll call it an evening after this next hand."

His smile told her he would make sure she followed through, but he didn't need to worry. Neither her body nor her heart would let her stay long.

The riverboat had been hers and Ira's for three months, and had proven itself profitable. In the beginning, when she was still able to move about easily, she had been a familiar – and popular – presence, traveling up the Mississippi to Natchez and back. Later, she decided to forego the cruises and visit only on the nights they kept the _Lady_ in port. This was the first time she had been out in six weeks, and while it felt good to escape the house for a while, her heart longed to be back with the only piece of Matt Dillon she had left.

She sighed, forcing back the melancholy that invaded her with each reminder of him. It had been over half a year, almost eight months in fact, since she had left Dodge, but the pain was just as sharp, just as intense as it had been that first day. A strand of steel tied her to Dodge, un-severable, even though she had tried desperately to cut the link. That part of her life lay behind her, but the remnants clung like beggar lice.

Despite her efforts not to let it, her mind wrapped around those last memories, that last time. She thought frequently of her talk with Hannah, telling the new saloon owner about wondering every time she and Matt were together if it would be the last time. Now there had been a last time, and she couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop feeling him around her, against her, inside. She ached with the pleasure and pain of that memory, clutching at it, treasuring each caress, each kiss, each movement of his long, hard body against hers. She wondered if he remembered, too, wondered if he thought of her often – or not at all. Or if the hurt she had seen on his face that morning had suffocated the love he had once breathed.

As the months crept by and Ira left her alone long enough to let her thoughts wander, they always flew to Matt, no matter how hard she tried to distract herself. In the most torturous moments, she wondered if he had found someone else, wondered if his new woman rubbed his back at night, if she gave him bourbon to dull the ache, if she shivered when he ran his long fingers up the insides of her thighs, if she cried out when he touched her center, if she wrapped her legs around his waist when he sank deep inside her. The agonizing visions tormented her night after night as she lay torn between sleeplessness and restless nightmares.

During the day, she thought saw him on street corners or stepping out of carriages, but closer looks revealed that the man was too short, too thin, too fat, too – too _not_ Matt, and after her brain cleared, she wondered what had ever made her think it could be him in the first place.

Ira had been good to her, more than good, and she felt a little guilty that she hadn't been completely honest with him. But what would it matter? She hadn't been honest with Matt, either. Occasionally, she wondered why she hadn't told him. It might have made a difference. Then, she reminded herself that she hadn't wanted it to make a difference, didn't want him to stay out of obligation. And of course, there was the danger. It was bad enough that even as his woman she had been used to get at him. How much worse would it be for him to carry the weight of a wife – and more? What she had told Hannah was true: If something happened to a child of theirs because of who he was, he would never forgive himself. The rest was true, too: Maybe she wouldn't forgive him, either.

Matt Dillon was a man driven to uphold the law, to do what was right, regardless of the cost to himself. She had realized that finally, had understood a few weeks too late that the day she had dreamed of all those years – the day he turned in his badge – would never come. He would live and die a lawman, and while she could deal with him living as a lawman, it was that dying part she couldn't face anymore.

A thought tickled her mind, one she entertained way too often. What if he were dead already? She had left partly for the very reason that she couldn't continue to live with the terror that he would be shot down right before her eyes, or brought back into town in the back of a wagon, long, lean body stiff with rigor mortis. She had told herself she wouldn't worry about that anymore, that it didn't matter. But it did. Would she open a newspaper one day and read that some tinhorn's lucky bullet had finally taken out the great Marshal Dillon? Would Doc send a telegram? Then she remembered that she hadn't told Doc where she'd be. In fact, she had taken pains not to be easily traced. It occurred to her from time to time to wonder if anyone had tried to find her. It was ironic that she chose the one name she had waited years for, but had never been offered. Ironic that she'd be safest in New Orleans with the name that would have made her the most vulnerable in Dodge.

Anger flooded her chest anew with the haunting thoughts. Damn him! Damn Matt Dillon for what he had done to her. Damn him for burrowing into her heart and not having the decency to climb out when she told him to. Damn him for his loyalty and dedication to that damn badge. And damn him for leaving her with a reminder so precious that she would _never_ be able to forget him.

"Two pair! Aces and eights!"

Driven suddenly from her thoughts, she looked up at the gambler to her left. His dark eyes held her, challenged her to beat his hand. Glancing down, she spread out her cards. A seven of clubs marred the attempted straight. She had nothing.

"Dead man's hand wins," she said, nodding toward him.

"Thanks, Red," he leered, his teeth showing white under a rakish mustache. "But I ain't no dead man, and I'll prove it to ya'."

Although her expression didn't falter, she felt a twinge of irritation at the name. Only outlaws and no-a-counts called her Red. Although there was the rare occasion when Matt –

"How 'bout you an' me cuttin' outta here someplace more private?"

The smile still curving her lips, she returned, "Sorry, mister. I'm kinda busy right now."

"When ya' get off?"

_With you?_ she thought. _Never. _"I said I'm sorry, mister."

His easy grin collapsed into a pout. "Come on, Red. It'll be quick."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," she shot back.

He flushed, and dark rage swept over his face. Kitty winced as he grabbed her wrist and squeezed. "Stop it," she ground out, her natural brass not intimidated by the physical show of strength.

"I'll stop it when I'm good and ready. No riverboat whore's gonna insult Elliott Randolph and get away – "

But he didn't finish. Kitty felt his hand squeeze tighter and looked down as another hand closed on top of it, a hand that covered the gambler's and folded all the way around it. A strong, long-fingered hand that was very, very familiar. With a cry, Randolph broke his grip as his entire body was jerked away from her. She looked up to see him hurl across the room and land with a crash, splintering a gambling table ten feet away. Trembling with relief and anticipation, she looked up to thank her unexpected savior – and froze.

"Oh my God."

"No, Kitty," came the answer. "It's just me."

He stood there, as tall and handsome as ever in his dark dress pants and gray jacket, hat in the hand opposite the one that had just sent her aggressor flying. The sheer physical impact of his presence hit her like a fierce Kansas wind, and she had to lock her knees in place to remain upright. The blue eyes fixed on her, looking her up and down in that old way of measuring her that took her breath.

"You okay?"

She could only nod, still rooted in place, her brain sifting through a dozen responses but not managing to hang onto one. The memory that had haunted her for eight months now returned, hitting her with the full force of the pain and fear and anger of those last moments they had spent together.

**XXXX**

She opened her eyes to slits until she realized it was still dark outside. He had lit a far lamp, turning the flame low so it gave only enough light in the room to keep him from stumbling into the furniture. Lying still, she watched as he slipped on his shirt then tucked it into his pants. His final move was to slide the right-draw gun belt around his waist, and she thought grudgingly that it seemed to greet him like an old friend. They had been so focused on other things the night before that she had not noticed it was his old belt. The sight pushed her heartbeat faster. Surely he wasn't still going out. Surely after last night he would wait.

She had almost pleaded with him, had appealed to common sense. His arm wasn't back to normal yet. She didn't know if it ever would be, but she didn't tell him that. Surely, though, he knew. Surely, he realized the limitations of that serious injury. Surely he could tell the difference after the sweat and pain he had put himself through the past six months trying to rehabilitate it.

But he had cheated, had countered her argument with the most powerful weapon he had: his body. Her protests dissolved beneath his lips; her reasoning disintegrated with his caress; her fears retreated at the sight of his hard body eager for her. She cursed herself for being weak, for letting her passions take control, but she couldn't stop the inevitable from happening.

But now, in the hour before dawn, she realized nothing had changed.

"Matt?" she asked, voice tight.

He turned. "Hey." Smiling, he sat gently on the bed next to her and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. "Go back to sleep."

"What are you doing?"

He chuckled. "It's morning, Kitty. I'm heading out. I'll see you in a week or so."

She sat suddenly, completely unconcerned about the sheet falling from her bare breasts. His eyes lowered involuntarily to take in the sight.

"What do you mean, you're heading out?" She used the tone that he knew all too well, and it was about the only thing that could have shifted his attention.

"What?"

"You're still going?"

"Kitty, you know I'm still going. Why would you think – "

"After – after last night?" Nausea churned in her stomach, and even though she had gotten used to that the past few weeks, this time it was for a different reason.

A frown drew his brow down. "Kitty, I'm not sure what you mean. Last night – well, I think you could tell how much I enjoyed last night, but what does it have to do with me leaving – or not leaving?"

"I told you I didn't want you to go. I – I practically begged you, made a fool of myself to get you to stay. Don't you remember?"

Comprehension flowed over his face. Sighing, he stood. "Kitty, I have to go."

Knowing him well enough to realize he meant it, she quickly suggested, "Take Festus with you."

"I need him here." He reached out to caress her arm. "I'll be okay."

A fury whipped up by fear swept over her, and she jerked away from him. "You'll be okay? Matt, how can you say that? How many times have you NOT been okay? How many times have I seen you ride back into town – or more likely seen Buck bring you back into town – barely hanging onto the saddle? Do you know how many?"

"Kitty – "

"And now – you know that arm's not back to normal, but there you go, big Marshal Dillon. Nobody can take you, is that what you think?"

"You know what they say, Kitty. There was never a horse – "

Not caring if anyone beyond the walls of her bedroom heard, she yelled, "Oh, don't give me that rubbish! We're not talking about a horse! We're talking about a man. About you! You don't think they can take you? Well, they can! They can gun you down, rip their bullets right through that stubborn heart of yours and then where will you be?" Rage enflamed her eyes so that they practically shot their own bullets at him. "Where will _I_ be? Where will – " She stopped just in time, not wanting, even in her anger, to hold him that way. "Damn you, Matt Dillon. When are you going to learn? When are you going to realize you've used up your chances?"

"Kitty – "

Her emotions almost in a frenzy, now, she lost herself in the anger and fear and exhaustion of twenty years of watching him leave, of knowing he might not return, of writhing in the anguish those nightmares brought. Unleashed, the passions exploded at him.

"No! You just go! Just go, but don't expect me to welcome you back. Kitty Russell isn't just going to wait around for you to stagger back in half torn up – or not at all. Get the hell out of here!"

Expression battered, he made a final to attempt to reach out to her, but she pulled away. Lips pressed tight, he shoved his hat onto his head and opened the door. "I'll see you later, Kitty," he said, but in that moment, she knew those would be the last words she would hear from Matt Dillon.

**XXXX**

And now he stood before her, and her heart shuddered under the combined assault of joy and fury, of relief and resentment. The familiar scent of soap and leather wrapped around her and tugged her toward him. She found her voice finally, making it as even as she could. "Matt."

Taking a breath, he straightened, hat still in hand, and stepped forward, bringing him within inches of Kitty. She felt her pulse jump, heard her heart pound, and she wondered if he was going to touch her, or even kiss her – wondered if she could resist him if he did. But he didn't make either attempt, just stood there before her.

"You look good, Kitty," he said simply, but she knew him well enough to read more in his eyes.

She didn't answer, her eyes doing their own looking from years of habit, seeing each new scar, every additional scrape. He had lost weight, she saw. His shirt hung looser, his pants a little longer. His face, though still handsome, seemed drawn, the long lines deeper, heavier. Looking up, she noted that his hair was just as beautiful, just as thick and wavy, but more gray had encroached into the rich brown. And it had only been eight months since she left.

"How – how did you find me?"

"I'm a lawman."

As if she had to be reminded. She let that irritation lend her strength to overcome the urge to throw herself at him right then. "No, I mean, how did you figure out I was in New Orleans?"

He almost smiled. "Where else would you be?"

"But I – my name – "

Eyes widening, he flushed a little. "Yeah, that took me a while," he admitted, looking embarrassed at his uncharacteristic lack of deduction. "Now that I think on it, though, I guess I should have figured it out a long time ago."

Before she could respond, a movement to her left caught their attention, and she turned just as Ira stepped in next to her, sliding a protective arm around her shoulders. "Is this man bothering you, Kitty?" he asked, voice dangerously courteous.

"No," she assured him quickly. "No. This is – " Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to do the introductions. "Ira Pennington, this is – Matt Dillon."

Ira's eyes narrowed first at the marshal, then at her. "Matt – Dillon?" he repeated, as if he hadn't heard her right.

"Marshal Dillon," she said, her eyes pleading with Ira not to say anything.

After a moment, the smaller man nodded and let his arm drop to Kitty's waist. "Marshal. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Looking back at Matt, she saw the shadow cross his face, watched him glance between her and Ira, perceived his comprehension of the situation – and winced at the flicker of pain. Absently, his right hand eased into his coat pocket and moved as if he were going to take out something, but when he pulled the hand back, it was empty. Tossing his hat a little, he cleared his throat and looked down. When he looked back up, he inclined his head slightly toward Ira.

"No, I was – just in town on business, and decided to – pay my respects to – an old friend," he said.

She felt her heart break all over again, and barely kept herself from stumbling into his arms and telling him everything, begging him to stay. But she knew she had to remain strong, had to fight every impulse in order to stand there and let him go. Nothing had changed. She would not let him take her back to Dodge just to wait for him to die or to wait for some outlaws bent on revenge to come after his woman – or worse. It was better for both of them this way.

At least that's what she kept trying to tell herself. But it had been a lot easier when he was a thousand miles away.

"It – it was good to see you again, Matt," she managed. "I'm sorry you can't stay longer." It took a hard swallow to say the rest. "Have – have a safe trip back to Dodge."

He flinched as if she had slapped him, and she had to bite her lip to keep the tears from flowing. His expressive eyes bore into hers, as if reading her, digging deep into her soul. Finally, with a heavy breath, he tugged his hat back onto his head and nodded to her, emotions just as tight as his lips.

"My apologies if I – caused trouble," he said, voice rigid. "Goodbye."

He turned, wide shoulders towering above every other man in the room, and walked toward the door. Ira tightened his grip on her, and maybe that was the only thing that kept her from tearing away and running after the big lawman.

"Kitty," he asked tentatively, "is he – "

She could only nod, not trusting her voice. She watched as the tall body moved farther and farther away from her, out of her life again just as quickly as he had come back in. If she could survive these few moments, if she could live through the fresh rip in her heart, she might have a chance. He was almost at the door, almost out of sight. She had almost made it. He was almost gone.

He was almost gone! Involuntarily, her feet stumbled forward, pulled by that steel strand that cut right through her resolve. Confused, Ira hung onto her.

"Matt!" she called, unable to stop herself.

He froze for a moment, then turned, face guarded but expectant.

Before she could reach him, though, Elliott Randolph stepped between them, having somehow managed to drag himself to his feet, blood streaming from his nose, shoulders hunched menacingly.

"All right, mister," he rumbled, "you think you're a big man, do ya? Let's see what you can do in a fair fight."

Even past her roiling emotions, Kitty almost laughed, almost felt sorry for Randolph – almost. The shorter man rounded on Matt in attack stance, circling. The marshal squared, hands hanging at his sides, and waited at the door.

"Stay back, Kitty," Matt warned, eyes locked on Randolph.

"I don't know who you think you are," the gambler jeered, "but you're gonna stay away from my woman."

"Now see here – " Ira began.

Matt's brow rose. "Seemed to me like 'your woman' was more interested in _you_ stayin' away from her," he observed calmly.

That was enough to provoke the gambler, and he lunged at the Dodge City marshal, whose sudden, powerful backhand caught him hard and laid open his cheek with a spray of blood. Stumbling back, Randolph gritted his teeth and spit red, running full force, head down, toward Matt. Dillon took the impact still on his feet and drove the furious man back to the floor with a crushing right hook that smashed into the side of Randolph's head. The gambler lay still.

Straightening and pushing his hat back, Matt looked at her, his gaze cautious, questioning. "Kitty – "

Before he could finish, a flash of metal reflected off the cut glass chandeliers.

"Matt!" she cried.

Spinning, the marshal drew and fired, but the knife was already in the air. It sank into his left shoulder at the same time Randolph's body contorted from the bullet that tore through his heart. The gambler crashed into a chair before he ended up lifeless on the floor. Somewhere, the bizarre thought passed through her brain that Randolph's hand really had been the Dead Man's Hand.

But she thrust that from her head when she looked back up at Matt. Face contorting in pain, he clutched at the protruding knife handle and staggered back. A red stain had already begun to soak the material of his coat as he dropped to his knees.

"Matt!" Kitty screamed, tearing away from Ira and falling beside the big man as he collapsed completely. Gently, she laid her hands on either side of his face. "Matt?"

"I'm – okay, Kitty," he grunted, eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

"The hell you are."

Someone called for a doctor – she thought it was Ira – and she hoped that some physician had seen fit to gamble tonight. Matt's hand came up toward the wound, his body trying to find the source of pain and stop it. She caught his fingers in hers to keep him from doing more damage.

"Take it easy, Cowboy," she soothed, the endearment coming without effort. An uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu crept through her veins; this was a much too familiar scene.

At her voice, his eyes opened, their beautiful blue clouded gray. "Kitty," he murmured.

She couldn't help it. As much as she had tried to forget him, as much as she had promised herself Matt Dillon was out of her life, she couldn't stop the swell of love that filled her breast. Leaning over, she kissed him softly on the cheek and ran a hand through his hair. "It's gonna be okay, Matt," she said. "I'm here. I'm here."

A slight smile, barely a twitch of his lips, responded to her assurances before unconsciousness claimed him. Kitty sat beside him, tears streaming down her face, hands brushing through his hair. When a doctor arrived, she stayed close enough to hold Matt's hand. Even if he couldn't feel it, she could. Ira returned, bent over her and looked at her curiously. She could only shake her head, not having answers for him – for any of them.

Matt Dillon had found her, had come for her once more. And here she was again, sitting beside him, watching him bleed while a doctor tried to patch him up. Damn it! Damn him! And damn him again – because in that moment, she knew she couldn't send him away – but she couldn't go back to the life she had before.

So she sat there, holding his hand and praying that there was some answer out there, even she if didn't know what it was yet.

**TBC**


	8. Other Things to Consider

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Eight: Other Things to Consider**

POV: Matt

Spoilers: "Hostage!;" "The Disciple"

Rating: PG (Teen)

Disclaimer: The main characters are not mine, although I did create a few guest stars along the way.

**XXXX**

Matt Dillon opened his eyes to the soft glow thrown by a low-burning oil lamp. The shadows cast on the walls of the room played gently against gilt-framed portraits on one side and a large wardrobe on the other. He lay still for a moment, too many years of similar experiences cautioning him to gather quick information about his situation before acting. A deep burn in his left shoulder, a persistent buzz in his head, and a general stiff ache down his body gave immediate signals that he had once again survived some unpleasant incident.

Without moving too much, he glanced down to discover that he lay on a large canopied bed, covers drawn to his waist, bare-chested except for a tightly bound bandage around the throbbing shoulder. Had he been shot? He couldn't wipe the fuzziness from his brain enough to retrieve clear memories. Frowning, he pushed hard past the physical pain in an effort to figure out what his last conscious thoughts were.

Kitty!

The name, the vision, the touch swept over him as if she were actually in the room. Not shot – stabbed, he remembered, then. By some low-life gambler who had tried to take advantage of her. He cursed himself for dropping his guard, for letting himself think only a couple of hard punches could have dispensed the man so easily. He was lucky to have escaped with only a shoulder wound.

A creak from the door cut into his replay of events, and he tried to push up to greet whoever was entering the room, his heart beating a little faster in anticipation that it might be Kitty. But it wasn't Kitty. Not even close. A dark man, medium height and mustached, stepped in quietly, his eyes peering at Matt. When he saw the patient was awake, he relaxed a bit and walked in more boldly.

"Ah, Marshal. I'm glad to see you are feeling better." The voice was laced with a rich drawl, not the mixed heavy Cajun of so many New Orleans residents, but a lighter, more genteel style.

"Evening," Matt greeted. Then, as he remembered the name, added, "Mister Pennington."

The man waved a hand casually. "Oh, call me Ira. You gave us quite a scare for a while there. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to wake up at all."

Matt frowned, deciding that, first of all, he was _not_ going to call this guy Ira, and second, he couldn't have been out that long. It had been evening when he stepped on board _The New Orleans Lady_ looking for Kitty. A quick glance at the window told him it was still evening. "What – what time is it?"

Ira pulled a gleaming gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. "Getting close to midnight now."

Midnight. That was only a few hours. He'd been out much longer than that many times before. Grimacing, he did his best to push up using his right arm, experiencing only mild success.

"Here, now," Ira cautioned, coming around to help. "Careful. The doctor said you needed to rest as much as possible. You've had quite a hard time of it."

Again, Dillon frowned. These New Orleans folks must not have much sand to them if they thought a couple of hours sleep after being stabbed was a hard time. "I'm fine," he assured the other man, not liking how weak his voice sounded.

"Well, you do look better than you did a few days ago."

"Yeah, well – " Days? Swallowing, Matt asked quietly, "How long have I been out?"

Ira pursed his lips and lifted his eyes, as if counting. "Let's see, you were stabbed Friday. Today's Monday. That makes three days now."

Three days? "Just from a knife wound?" Matt scoffed.

"Well, Marshal, there are some who would consider being stabbed with a knife a relatively significant thing, but the way Kitty talks about you, it doesn't surprise me that you're not one of them."

At the mention of her name, Dillon's thoughts abandoned how long he'd been out. There were more important issues here. "Where _is_ Kitty?" he asked.

Pennington's eyes shifted away so that he was no longer looking at the marshal. "She – uh – she's busy right now. But I'll tell her you're awake."

Busy? Matt let his gaze trail to the half-open door, as if he might catch a glimpse of her passing by. Busy. Of course. He should have known, should have realized. She didn't want to see him. She hadn't asked him to come, had she? And now he had interrupted the life she had just begun. A life without him. A life without the uncertainties and dangers he had brought her for the past twenty years. At least until he showed up, and then she was thrust right back into gunplay and knives.

He nodded at Ira and watched him for a moment, trying to size up this man Kitty had chosen. Pennington was more cultured, Matt figured, or at least more accustomed to the luxuries of life, more in a position to give Kitty comfort and nice things. He wondered uneasily if he could give her love, wondered if he already had.

"This is your house?" the marshal guessed.

Ira nodded. "Yes."

"Nice."

The man shrugged easily. "I have been fortunate enough in life to be able to afford some of the finer things."

Abruptly, Matt decided he had to get out of there. He couldn't stay in a house that belonged to Kitty's new lover, couldn't bear the thought of what might occur within that house between them, couldn't stand the mental images of her in another man's arms. Throwing the covers back, he swung his long legs over the side of the bed and sat, grunting against the various attacks of pain throughout his body.

"Hey, there!" Ira protested, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Matt fought the impulse to knock the hand away. "I have to go," he said, voice strained with the effort. "I'm obliged for your help."

Pennington looked confused. "But you're in no shape even to be sitting. The doctor said – "

"I'm sure the doctor's a fine man, but I need to be getting back to Dodge."

"Kitty was right. You are stubborn," he noted, hurrying back out of the room.

Matt scowled, displeased that Kitty had shared anything about him with this man. Taking a bracing breath, he pushed to his feet, nodding in satisfaction when he stayed there. But his success was short-lived. In only a few seconds, cold sweat broke out over his skin, blood drained from his face, and his legs softened to jelly. Fighting to keep his eyes focused, he squinted about the room in search of his clothes, black spots dancing in front of his vision, leading him down a dark tunnel. Disgusted with his body's betrayal, it occurred to him too late that perhaps he needed to sit, but even scrounging up that much energy suddenly seemed like too much effort.

"Matt!"

He turned at the familiar cry, jerking suddenly, too suddenly, and lost his balance, falling sideways onto his left side. He thought he hit the edge of the bed, but wasn't sure. Pain burst through the injured shoulder, exploding in fireballs that raced to his head, engulfing his consciousness in a conflagration of agony. Then he felt nothing.

**XXXX**

When he came to again, he was back in the same bed, covers in place, lamp still glowing. Glancing down at his shoulder, he noted with a grimace that fresh bandages swathed it, even thicker and more binding than before. Another sensation nudged its way into his awareness, a soft, warm touch at his hand. Raising his eyes, he saw Kitty sitting by his side, her eyes darkened in concern.

"Hey, Cowboy," she greeted quietly.

There was a time when he had loved to hear her call him that. A time when he had wrapped his heart around those words and burrowed into the security of them. A time when those words inevitably led to the sweetest and most passionate loving he had ever known. But that time had passed. He couldn't hear those words now, couldn't re-live their past, knowing they didn't mean the same anymore.

"Where am I?" he asked, still trying to blink his way back to alertness.

"You're at Ira's house in the French Quarter," Kitty answered, her hand brushing soft and cool against his forehead.

Oh yeah. Ira's house.

The knife that had torn his shoulder twisted a little more, but the pain was in his heart now. Ira. Scenes from the riverboat flashed in his mind: the way the man held Kitty; the protective threat in his eyes. It was what he had feared, of course, and he had only himself to blame. He looked back up at her, his breath catching, as it always did, at her beauty.

"How're ya' feeling?" she asked.

He nodded, a move that meant absolutely nothing. Looking into those deep blue eyes, he considered how easy it would be to draw her to him, to feel her tender skin against him, to crush her beautiful breasts to his chest, to join their bodies once more and show her just how much he needed her – if she'd have him. But he couldn't. She had made her choice and he wouldn't stand in the way of her happiness. He'd done that for far too long. If she had found peace in New Orleans, he couldn't take that from her, even if it meant losing himself for good. His entire life had been about sacrifice. He'd sacrificed for complete strangers. How could he not do it for Kitty? Gritting his teeth, he tried to pull his body up from the bed, only managing a few inches before the burn of his shoulder slammed him back down.

"Whoa, there," she scolded, her hands on his chest. "Where do ya' think you're goin'?"

"I need – I have to get back to Dodge," he said, even though he wanted to do anything but that.

"Dodge? You're not going anywhere, mister. Not for a while anyway."

"Kitty," he complained, hoping she'd understand, "it's just a knife wound. Not like I haven't had anything like that before."

"_Just_ a knife wound? I swear, Matt, if you could hear yourself. Anyway, it's not _just a knife wound_. The doctor said you are also suffering from exhaustion and a whole collection of half-healed injuries. Your knee was so swollen we almost couldn't get your pants off. Just what on earth have you been doing since I've been gone?"

_Falling apart_, he wanted to say. _Falling apart._

"Kitty," he argued, trying not to sound desperate, but needing to get out before he really did fall apart right there in front of her. "I can't – I can't stay here." He couldn't watch them, couldn't bear to see her with someone else, knowing another man was touching her, loving her –

"Why not? Ira has plenty of room, and he doesn't mind."

Sure he doesn't, Matt thought. "No, Kitty," he pushed, head spinning with the effort. "I need to – "

Her voice suddenly took on a sharp tone, the anger bleeding through. "So you'll just leave again, huh? Just like before, even when I'm asking you to stay?"

Confusion and memory battered him, but they were merely the vanguard of a surge of anger of his own. Was she really accusing him of leaving her? Was she putting this whole thing on him? Suddenly, months of fear and depression and frustration – and loneliness – surged to the surface. Unable to press them back down, he dragged himself up, despite the agony that smashed through his body, and faced her, eyes blazing.

"What do you mean, _I'll _leave?" he snapped. "_I'm_ not the one who walked out, Kitty. _ I'm_ not the one who vanished without a word, without a trace. _ I'm_ not the one who abandoned twenty years of – of commitment – of – of love. _I'm _not the one who left just when – "

His arms were shaking now, barely holding him up, but he refused to give in to them. He hadn't planned to confront her at all, had determined that if she had chosen this life, who was he to interfere. But if she wanted this argument now, she would have it.

"You just left, Kitty. You left! No explanation. No note. Nothing. I didn't know if you were dead or alive. I didn't know if I'd ever see you again." _Or hear you laugh again, or look into your eyes again, or make love to you again. _"I haven't stopped looking for you since that day – or least after I got over the hangover from drinking myself into oblivion in Doc's office that night."

She flinched, but he couldn't feel any sympathy. "I've seen you in every town I've been to, shopping in every dress store, stepping off each stage coach, dealing in every saloon." His energy was gone, now, draining him of the anger and the hurt. Dropping back down onto the bed, he had only the breath to ask, "Why?"

Her own eyes had grown wide, and she stared back at him in shock. Instead of exploding at him as he had anticipated, though, she let her gaze drop to study her hands. "Matt," she said softly, almost so low that he couldn't hear her. "I know – I know I owe you an explanation."

His heart pounded, torn between yearning and dreading to hear her reasons for leaving.

Suddenly, she stood, as if she couldn't bear being too close to him. Nausea churned in his stomach. Looking out the darkened window, she said, "I couldn't stay any longer. I couldn't – I couldn't stand waiting to see if you were coming back or not coming back. I couldn't risk having my heart torn out by a telegram telling me you were dead – or by watching you die right in front of me."

He had known that for twenty years, had seen the burdens his job placed on her. Dear God, he knew, and he had finally done something about it. But he had done something too late. Not sure what to say, he remained silent, letting her continue.

"When I was – your woman – I know you worried about me. I know that's why you thought we could never be together as man and wife. You felt it would place me in too much danger. And you felt you couldn't do your job as well if you had to worry about a family."

He wanted to protest her theory, wanted to tell her she was wrong. But he couldn't. She had hit right on every reason he had for not claiming her as his wife years ago.

"After Bonner, I thought maybe – "

The knife twisted again in his heart, just like it did every time he heard that name. "Kitty – "

But she shook her head, still staring out the window. "No. Bonner wasn't your fault, even though I know you'll never believe that. It just happened, and we survived it, and it's over."

_It'll never be over,_ he thought.

"But I thought maybe since it happened when I was just your woman, you'd figured it wouldn't make any difference if I was your wife."

His eyes closed against the realization and the guilt. He had told himself the same thing when it happened, had almost broken down then and asked her to marry him, but he convinced himself Bonner was a fluke. The dog soldier hadn't known about Kitty until he got into town. He would never have known if she hadn't sacrificed herself to save the others. Matt had been proud of her – as proud of her as he had been furious with her for doing it.

"And then when your arm was hurt," she continued quietly, "I hurt for you, I knew you were fighting to regain not just your arm, but who you were. Still, I thought maybe this was it. This was when you would see it might be time to try something different. Something that didn't put you in harm's way every minute of every day. But you did what you always do. You didn't give in, you fought and you won – and I was proud of you for it, but – "

Turning toward him, she allowed her tears to fall. "I begged you not to leave. That last night, I begged you."

He knew, had replayed those last moments in his mind hundreds of times, had mulled over "what ifs" until he couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing. He wanted to tell her he had understood, had made his decision that trip out there on the trail lying under the stars dreaming of her. But it was too late.

"And now – " she started, her breath catching. "Now, there are – other things to consider."

Pennington, he realized. She meant Ira Pennington. Whatever relationship they had, it obviously meant a great deal to her. Anger gone, he sighed and drew a breath, knowing what he had to do.

"That's why I'm going, Kitty. I'd never want to make you unhappy, even though I've been doing it for twenty years – "

The tears trailed down her cheeks. "You haven't made me unhappy, Matt. The past twenty years have been the happiest of my life."

The ache in his chest grew. She couldn't make it easier for him, could she?

"Kitty, I couldn't have been who I was for the past twenty years without you. I don't know if you can realize how much you've meant in my life. But I've asked too much of you, more than you can give now. I see that. In New Orleans, you don't have to worry about someone coming into town to kill me or to take you to get to me. You have – " He swallowed, gathering the courage to continue. "You have – Ira to take care of you with beautiful, fancy things that I'll never be able to give you. You have someone to – " He let his words fall off as he looked up at her and saw the confusion on her lovely features.

"Ira?" she said, frowning. "What does he have to do with it?"

Damn it. Couldn't she just let him be gallant and get the hell out of there? "I understand, Kitty," he said, even though he really didn't understand, or at least didn't want to understand. "You and Ira – "

"Me and Ira?" Her mouth dropped, and she stared at him for a long beat. Then something amazing happened. She laughed, a hearty Kitty Russell laugh that rolled from her throat. He almost smiled just to hear the sound he had missed for almost a year.

"Kitty?" he asked, suddenly uncertain.

She continued, gasping for deep breaths until she finally caught one and managed to speak again. "Matthew Dillon!" she declared, and he couldn't help the glow he felt when she said his name. "You are the most incredibly dense and lovely man."

"I am?"

"Me and Ira?"

It was dawning on him that perhaps he had misjudged Kitty's connection with the man, and he allowed his emotions to creep toward a hopeful reassessment.

"You remember me talking about my cousin Charlotte?" she asked.

He nodded, even though he really didn't remember it at all.

"Ira's her husband. I've been staying here with them since I got into town. They've been awful good to me, especially since – " She stopped suddenly.

He caught her wrist, confusion and relief kicking at him. "Kitty, I thought – "

"I can see that." Gentleness touched her voice just as her hand touched his face. "No, Matt. I'm not with Ira."

The deluge of emotions drenched him, flowed over him until he feared he would lose complete control of himself. Clenching his jaw and catching a hard breath, he fought to keep the sensation from overwhelming him, squeezed his eyes shut to block out the embarrassing well of tears.

"Matt?" she asked, alarmed. "Are you okay? Should I send for the doctor again?"

"No," he gasped, then forced the calm into his voice. "No. I'm all right." Dear God, he was more than all right.

"Matt," she whispered, her fingers brushing over his lips. "I love you. I've loved you for twenty years and I'll never stop loving you."

He stared at her, unable to respond.

"But I can't go back to Dodge. I can't go back to waiting for you to die. And I can't put the burden on you to protect me and – "

She smiled sadly, leaning down to kiss the lips her fingers had just caressed and it was the sweetest nectar he had ever sipped. She tried to pull back, but he opened his mouth to her, drinking from her like a man who had been in the desert for weeks without water. He wanted to drown in her, would die a happy man if he could. Her lips responded, parting for him, giving to him and taking from him eagerly, frantically.

Suddenly, she broke away, and they both groaned at the loss of contact. "Matt," she gasped, "I have to tell you something."

No, he didn't want to know anything except that she loved him and that somehow they would make this work. He wanted her lips again, wanted her body next to his, wanted her love.

But she continued anyway. "What I told you was true, about leaving Dodge. The reasons I gave you. But there's something else. Some_one_ else that's more important than any of those other reasons."

His heart sank anew in his chest. Someone else? But she had said that she and Ira weren't together. How could she kiss him like that if –

"His name is Sam," she said, and the softness and love that filled her eyes told him all he needed to know.

"Sam?" he choked out, soul aching.

"Sam," she confirmed. "Would you like to meet him?"

Meet him? God, no. He needed to get out of there. This was a nightmare, surely she knew that. "Kitty – "

She pushed up from the bed before he could move. "I'll be right back."

As soon as she disappeared, he forced his feet to the floor and stood, grateful that his body seemed to fulfill that demand a little better than before. His pants lay folded neatly in a chair he hadn't noticed earlier, and he struggled to pull them on using mainly his right hand. Desperate to leave before she could get back, he was still fumbling with the buttons when she returned, not seeming at all surprised to see him standing.

Grimacing, he braced for yet another blow, another unbearable twist of the knife. But to his surprise, no man hovered behind her, no suitor glared at him from over her shoulder. Instead, she carried something, a small bundle of soft blue blankets that, on closer inspection, seemed to be squirming. And she fairly glowed as she looked down at the material.

Letting her gaze rise to his, she took an unsteady breath and held the bundle out carefully toward him. "Matt," she said softly, "I want you to meet Matthew Samuel Dillon."

What?

What?

His brain slowed as if he had molasses inside his head. Looking down, he saw that she had pushed some of the blanket away to reveal a round-cheeked little face, long-fingered hands curling and uncurling at the tiny mouth, familiar blue eyes peering up at him.

It was a baby. Dear God, it was a baby. It was –

He looked up at her suddenly, comprehension slamming into him.

"Your son," she confirmed.

His breath stopped completely, and he wasn't too sure his heart didn't, too. His son?

His son.

His son.

Dear God.

**TBC**


	9. Twenty Years, But No Buckshot

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Nine: Twenty Years, But No Buckshot**

POV: Kitty

Spoilers: "Tap Day for Kitty;" "Bad Lady from Brookline;" "The Badge;" "Disciple"

Rating: Teen (PG)

Disclaimer: Not my characters (except the obvious one – although I guess Matt and Kitty take the most credit for him)

**XXXX**

Daylight had begun to pry through the heavy drapes of the guest room at the house on Dauphine Street, thin shafts of illumination throwing bright streaks across the rumpled bedclothes. Kitty squirmed in the straight-backed chair and drew a deep breath, extending arms and legs in a ginger stretch. She had sneaked back into Matt's room just before dawn, having seen to her son's needs – _their_ son, she corrected herself. Her eyes fell on the man whose long frame took up most of the bed before her, and she couldn't resist reaching out and running her fingers over the rough stubble of his jaw, through the untamed waves of his hair. He needed a trim – more like a full cut, actually. The long curls flipped around his ears and hung over his forehead, not as dark as when she had first run her hands through them twenty years before, but still just as thick.

She hadn't tried to fool herself, hadn't pretended that she was over him. She knew well enough that would never happen – not after eight months or eight years or eighty years. The moment she laid eyes on that big, tall, handsome lawman, her heart had been completely, hopelessly, and eternally entangled with his. Now, twenty years later, she was no less caught. On the contrary, Matt Dillon had sunk so deep inside her and wrapped himself so solidly around her heart that not even death could pry him loose. And, she thought ruefully, the Grim Reaper had certainly tried to often enough.

As was her habit, she let her gaze scan his body, taking note of the new marks, of the small scar just below his eye, the larger one across his ribs, and another over the knuckles of his left hand. Each had been added since she had last seen him. As usual, she wondered what had left them, wondered how much pain their creations had caused, wondered if her presence might have made them hurt just a little less. If she had been there, maybe she could have helped him, soothed the discomfort – or at least distracted him for a while. But she hadn't been there. He had earned those scars alone.

"Kitty?"

She looked up at the sound of the soft drawl to see her cousin Charlotte peek into the room. Smiling tiredly, Kitty lifted her chin to welcome the other woman. Although they held a direct blood relation through grandparents, the two women couldn't have been more different in appearance. While Kitty had inherited the fair skin and fiery hair of her mother's family, Charlotte favored the dark Creole of her father's side, her raven curls piled up in a tight mass on top of her head. And while Charlotte had been content to fall into the expected second-class status of most women of her day, Kitty had balked at being dependent on anyone except herself. Still, the two had formed a bond in childhood that had been reborn in the months since Kitty returned to New Orleans.

Charlotte stepped across the threshold. "You must be exhausted," she observed. "Why don't you let me sit with him for a while?"

Kitty couldn't deny the fatigue that pressed down on each muscle, but there was no way she would leave him. Not now. Not after they'd had to call the doctor again. And certainly not after the way Matt had reacted to Sam. "I'm okay," she told her cousin.

The other woman shook her head. "Sure."

"Sam still asleep?" Kitty asked, changing the focus.

It worked. Charlotte gave her a soft smile. "Like a baby. He sure is beautiful, Kitty."

"He is, isn't he?"

"I always figured you'd have handsome children, but now that I've seen his daddy, I can tell Sam gets it from both sides."

Well, she couldn't refute that.

"Is he going to be all right?" Charlotte asked, glancing pointedly toward the bed.

Kitty sighed, wishing she really knew. The doctor said his wounds would mend. But there were more than just physical recoveries to consider now. "I think so, if I can just keep him in bed for a little while."

Her cousin colored. "Seems like you already did that."

Kitty raised a brow in surprised acknowledgement of that truth. Charlotte usually was too timid to make such suggestive statements.

"If you'll pardon my asking, Kitty," she continued, "but, my goodness, how on earth could you have walked away from _that_?" Her head nodded toward the sleeping man, and Kitty saw the appreciative twinkle in her dark eyes.

Sighing, Kitty looked at him, trying to imagine him from someone else's view, to look at him as if she hadn't known him intimately for two decades. He was still the biggest man she had ever seen – and the best looking. His assets were plentiful: firm hips, long legs – the muscles bold and hard from years of riding; broad chest, wide shoulders, trim waist, strong arms; thick, curly hair, handsome face. There was no doubt that, physically, he was the most impressive man she had ever seen.

But there was so much more to Matt Dillon: his deep sense of right and wrong; his genuine concern for his fellow humans; his value of honesty and fair play; his kindness and gentleness; and in the most intimate of situations, his tenderness and selflessness.

But it was the damn unwavering devotion to duty that had finally defeated her. She couldn't compete with it. Instead of sharing all those complex thoughts with Charlotte, however, she just shrugged. "Damned if I know."

Her cousin cocked her head dubiously, but didn't debate the response. Instead, she asked another question. "What did he say when you told him about – Sam?"

Kitty's eyes darkened, the guilty memory weighing on her. She had expected him to be shocked, certainly; angry, probably. What she got, though, was something much more complex.

She didn't answer Charlotte, but her cousin seemed to sense the uneasiness. Offering an understanding smile, she observed, "He must love you very much, Kitty, to come all this way after all this time."

"Yeah," Kitty whispered, her eyes lingering on his lips, which were slightly open. He had always looked younger and a tad vulnerable like that. She resisted the urge to crawl in next to him and hold him close. When she dragged her gaze away, she saw Charlotte's sympathetic eyes on her.

"Are you glad he came?" she asked quietly.

Glad? She was ecstatic. She was thrilled. She was _terrified_.

When she didn't answer again, Charlotte prodded, "What are you going to do, Kitty?"

It was a question she had asked herself for the past four days. What, indeed? Maybe that depended on what Matt did. As she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, her thoughts returned to those moments after she had dropped her bombshell on him.

**XXXX**

Kitty Russell had seen every expression that Matt Dillon's handsome face could make – or at least she thought she had until she watched him stand immobile, staring at the infant squirming in her extended arms. Although many people saw the formidable U.S. marshal as stoic and impenetrable, in her presence, those expressive features had revealed a myriad of emotions: honest delight, heated desire, furious anger, hard determination, subtle amusement. But she didn't think that, until this moment, she had ever observed flat-out, speechless astonishment.

The illogical notion occurred to her to place a hand on his chest and see if he was still breathing. Of course, he wasn't alone. Her own breath came tentatively, as well. Still, he had paled visibly, and she could count it as reasonably sure that blood loss wasn't the only cause. For a moment, she was afraid he would pass out right there on the floor and re-open the shoulder wound the doctor had just finished closing back up after he had lost his balance and fallen only a couple of hours before. But so far he had managed to hang on, his blue eyes locking on the matching blue eyes of the child – _his_ child, she had just announced.

Moments before, when they had kissed for the first time in months, she had wanted nothing more than to lose herself in him, to shout for joy at the heat and passion of his lips on hers, at the anticipation of feeling his hard body again. It had taken all her strength to pull away and not throw herself on him, bandaged shoulder and all. But it wouldn't have been fair to either of them. Even if he had been physically able to block out the pain of his injury and absorb the pleasure of her body – and he had certainly managed that numerous times in the past – there was something he needed to know, deserved to know, before he risked his heart – and hers – again.

Slowly, his gaze rose from the baby, and what she saw on his face then was even worse than the hurt she had seen on it their last night together.

Betrayal.

Unable to suppress the tears that sprang to her eyes, she let him look, allowed him the moment of silent condemnation. Even though she knew she'd had to leave Dodge, she could not deny him the right to place the secret of this squirming bundle of guilt on her shoulders. Not that he was aware he was doing it – in fact, she wasn't sure he was aware of anything except the shock of the child before him.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft mewling of their baby. Finally, his eyes closed, and he swayed, catching a hand on the bed post to steady himself.

"Matt?" Alarmed, Kitty noted the darkening stain on the bandage and shifted Sam to the crook of her arm before she grasped Matt's elbow. "You need to sit."

He shook his head and straightened, as if to prove he wasn't mere moments away from collapse. "No. I just – I – " His features melted into that look that had always held the capability to tear right through her heart, that look that appeared as though he carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

"Matt?" she asked again quietly, shaken by the depth of his pain.

The lines of his face tightened, and he drew in a ragged breath. "My God, Kitty."

Those three words cut her deeper than any drawn-out tirade ever could. She reached out to him. "Matt – "

But he pulled back, barely staying on his feet. "Kitty?" he asked, face wiped clean of any mask, soul bared completely to her to reveal the wound that cut him much deeper than any solid knife could. "You didn't tell me? You didn't – " He looked down at the baby again, his voice falling to a whisper. "_My son?_"

She nodded, heartsick with the realization that her actions that had been done to spare him the pain of having to protect and worry about a woman and child had instead caused more injury and grief. "Get back in bed, Matt," she admonished as gently as possible, concerned about the sudden paleness of his cheeks. "I'll get Ira – "

"You didn't tell me," he murmured once more, the words falling from his lips as his body fell back against the heavy wardrobe, his head slamming hard into the wood.

She screamed his name, then Ira's, startling Sam, whose own cries joined in the chaos. Ira's rapid footsteps hammered down the hall, followed quickly by softer ones. He and Charlotte darted into the room, and before Kitty could really register what had happened, her cousin held the baby, and Ira was struggling to haul Matt's solid frame off the floor. Kitty helped as best she could, and they managed to drag the tall lawman back onto the bed. Ira had then summoned the doctor again, who wasn't too pleased about being roused from his bed – for the second time – in one night. But he determined that there had been no further damage done and had left, pacified by the wad of greenbacks Ira pressed into his palm.

**XXXX**

Fresh guilt washed over her with the memory. She figured she knew Matt Dillon better than anyone else. Twenty years of intimacy, twenty years of confidences, twenty years of shared looks and private smiles. Still, even after all that time – even with _her _– she had never felt he ever completely let go of the tight grip he held on his deepest feelings. Oh, he had whispered beautiful words to her as he held her close and brought her body the most exquisite pleasures. He told her secrets about his childhood and about some of his experiences on the trail. He had joked with her, let his guard down when they were alone. And she knew that no one else had ever heard – or would ever hear – those things. Still, there had remained a piece of Matt Dillon buried so deep that no one had ever seen it.

Until she pried it loose. It didn't matter that she felt it was for his own good. It didn't matter that she figured the truth would cause him more grief. It didn't matter. When she saw the devastation in his eyes as he realized she had kept Sam from him, it didn't matter. At that point, he had not – or maybe _could_ not – press down his emotions. She saw him turned inside out.

"_You didn't tell me – "_

This man who usually chose to play his feelings so close to the vest had spilled his emotions all over the table for her to see.

A low groan drew her from her memory of the previous night's activities, and she stood, leaning over him, vaguely taking note that Charlotte had left. Matt shifted his long body under the covers, the muscles of his torso flexing with the movement. Slowly, his eyes squinted open, blinking slightly against the light. She watched as he took in his surroundings, his quick mind evaluating his situation, even past what must be a formidable headache. He turned his gaze toward her, surprise, pleasure, and uncertainty touching his features.

"Kitty?" he rasped, his right hand coming up to press against the back of his head. Even over her wariness about his reaction, she couldn't help noticing how his bicep bulged as he probed the sore spot.

"Hello, Matt," she greeted, voice tight. "How do you feel?"

"Head – hurts," he muttered, his fingers probing the area she knew was swollen from his fall.

"Well, don't even think about gettin' up. I don't think Ira has enough money to drag that doctor back out here for a third time."

His eyes focused quickly. "Third – what happened?"

"You had a showdown with the armoire, there. It won." Cautiously, she asked, "Do you remember – "

Swallowing, he looked up at her. "I'm not sure. Brain's kinda swimmy – to quote Festus."

She felt a sad pang at the mention of the deputy she hadn't seen in almost a year.

Clearing his throat weakly, Matt frowned. "Did the doctor give me any laudanum? I had the craziest dream."

She stiffened. "Dream?"

A painful smile crossed his lips. "Yeah. Believe it or not, you were – well, we had a – " Abrupt realization swept over his face, draining it of what little color had returned while he slept. Dropping his hand, he stared up at her, mouth open. "Kitty – it – it wasn't a dream, was it?"

Gently, she shook her head and rested her palm against his cheek. "No, Cowboy. It wasn't a dream."

Eyes wide, he held her gaze in wonder. "You really – we have – "

If the stakes hadn't been quite so high, she might have found the entire conversation amusing. As it was, she was barely breathing, waiting to see what he would say, how he would react.

Finally, he swallowed again and asked, "A _son_?"

"A son," she confirmed quietly.

He looked away for a moment and frowned in thought, then looked back at her. "Samuel?"

"Sam."

Now his eyes narrowed, and silence fell between them. As the seconds ticked off, she heard and felt her heartbeat pound louder and faster, bit back the churning nausea in her stomach. He could yell at her. Or not talk at all. Or – worst of all – leave.

Finally, he took a breath and looked at her, his eyes clear and calm. "Sam's – a good name," he decided, jutting his chin to the side and biting at his lower lip.

Relief flooded her, raced through her legs with such force that she almost sank to the floor beside him. "Would you like to hold him?" she offered tentatively.

His jaw muscles clenched, the muscles working hard, as his eyes locked with hers, and she saw uncertainty and hope mingling. "Hold him?"

"Hold him," she repeated lightly, then teased, "You know, in your arms?"

She watched his throat constrict as he swallowed once and nodded.

Almost shaking, she nodded back. "You wait here," she instructed, forcing herself not to run toward the door. "Don't you go anywhere, you hear me?"

The smile, however slight, that curved his mouth thrilled her. "Yes, ma'am," he replied obediently.

Sam protested being awakened from his nap, and normally she would have balked at the very thought, but she didn't think twice about it this time. Instead, she scooped up the infant, pressing a kiss against his soft forehead, and hurried back to Matt's room, barely able to contain her joy at the anticipated union of father and son.

When she returned, she saw that he had swung his legs over the side of the bed, keeping the sheet across his lap, a welcome glow of pink coloring his cheeks – whether from the small exertion or from the embarrassment of discovering he wore no clothes at all, Kitty couldn't tell.

He started to stand when she entered, but she shooed him back down. "Hold out your arms."

When he did as he was told, she placed the child into his father's large hands. Sam wasn't a small baby. He had weighed close to eight pounds at birth, and that was coming two weeks early. He would be tall, too, she could tell, his little body already stretching long when he threw his arms and legs out in the occasional fit of pique. Still, Matt's hands cradled him easily, as if he were designed to fit in their grasp.

The soft blanket fell back from his head, revealing gentle swirls of reddish-brown hair. His blue eyes opened and he peered up into the face of the man who had helped create him. With effort, Kitty tore her gaze away from her son and plastered it on his father.

The big lawman stared down at the child, a slow, amazed smile spreading over his face. "By golly, Kitty," he breathed, awe in his eyes. "By golly."

Thank God. Thank God.

"The doctor says he's healthy," she said, fighting to keep her voice even, to prevent the burgeoning tears from cascading down her cheeks.

"He's a mighty fine looking boy," he said, not shifting his gaze even one inch from the child.

Her heart swelled with love and pride for both of her men. "Like his daddy," she observed, leaning forward.

Matt looked up just as she bent down, just in time for her lips to brush his. But the idyllic scene lasted only a few seconds. When she pulled back, pain had touched his eyes again. "Why didn't you tell me, Kitty?" he whispered. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He deserved to know, but she wasn't sure she had an answer. "What would you have done, Matt?" she returned instead. "What would you have done when all of Dodge discovered that the marshal's woman was pregnant with his child?"

"Nothing would have changed, Kitty," he promised in earnest.

A scowl darkened her face. She knew what he meant, but it wasn't the right answer. "That's what I was afraid of."

A frown wrinkled his forehead. "No, I meant – I meant I wouldn't have – " Suddenly, his shoulders slumped, and he stared down at his son. "I would have been there. You didn't need to do this alone."

"I know you would have been there, Matt," she told him quietly. She had never doubted it. That was not the reason she left.

"Then why – why didn't you want me to know?"

Sucking in a fortifying breath, she admitted, "I was afraid that every time you looked at me or at Sam, you'd resent us. I was afraid that you'd be too worried about us to keep your edge. I was afraid that one day another Bonner would come around, looking for you or me and finding something even better – your son. I was afraid that if something happened to Sam, you'd never forgive yourself." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And I was afraid I'd never forgive you, either."

He winced and lifted his chin, face gaunt, realization of the truth of her words hitting him. "I see."

And she saw immediately that he did see. Maybe he saw too well.

"Do you want me to leave, Kitty?" he asked quietly, and she knew without a doubt that if she said yes he would walk out of there and never question her – even if it ripped him apart. She also knew that if he left, she would be shredded along with him.

"No." She said it so softly that he hadn't heard.

"Kitty?"

Her jaw working, she took one more fortifying breath and answered louder, "No. I don't."

She heard him let out a shuddering breath, but when she looked back at him, his face was composed.

"Kitty, I know you said you wouldn't return to Dodge."

There was a "but" in there, she could tell. "_Couldn't_ return – "

"But – "

There it was.

Suddenly, he held Sam out to her. "Take him for a minute?"

Confused, she held their son close to her and watched as his father braced against the bed post and stood, disregarding the fact that the sheet fell completely from him and left him totally bare to her gaze. Despite herself, she let her eyes take in the delicious sight of his long, hard muscles. He had always been solid, but the months since she had left had seen him grow leaner, and she felt a pang of guilt that she had been the cause. Gingerly, he lifted his trousers from where she had folded them neatly on a chair and stepped into them, buttoning the front panel before he lifted his head to look at her again.

"A man ought to be wearing pants to do what I want to do," he explained.

She wanted to tease him, to tell him what he usually wanted to do didn't require pants, at all. But the intensity in his eyes stopped the joke before it started.

She sighed, her heart aching with the decision she had to make. He loved her. And he didn't resent Sam. And somehow he had forgiven her for leaving, for not telling her about his son. But what he was about to ask her to do – well, she didn't know if she could give it to him.

"Matt," she said, voice shaking, "you know I – I can't go back to Dodge. Nothing's changed. There's still the fear, there's still the danger." With the reminders of why she left, her arguments grew stronger. "You'll still be out on the trail. You'll still be the target for every two-bit gunman – I can't just go back to being the marshal's woman. There's Sam, now, and – and how would you do your job and worry about a woman and a child – "

"Kitty," he interrupted, placing his hands on her shoulders. "I told you twenty years ago how it had to be. You knew I was a lawman, and you knew what that meant. You knew there were choices I didn't have because of that. You were free to go whenever you wanted."

If this was his idea of trying to talk her into going back with him –

"Twenty years, Kitty. Don't you think I knew all that time what you wanted, what I couldn't give you?"

She had wondered if he really did know what she wanted.

"Kitty, I can't be something or someone I'm not. You ought to know me well enough to realize that. And for more than twenty years, I was a lawman."

Well, damn it, she sure as hell knew that. She knew it all too well.

"But when you left, I realized – I realized – " He swallowed, and she heard his voice catch, felt his hands convulse on her shoulders. Softly, he said, "I told you once that I needed you, Kitty, do you remember?"

How could she forget? Those words had brought her back from the depths of hopelessness and despair as she lay on Doc's table, beaten and abused by Jude Bonner, wishing she were dead. But those few words from the man who loved her pulled her back, gave her something to live for.

She nodded, unable to speak.

"Well, I still need you, Kitty." To her shock, his eyes glistened with tears. Dropping his grip suddenly, he turned away from her, his broad back hunched against some inner pain.

"Matt?"

But he shook his head, and she watched those wide shoulders shake slightly. "You asked me what I'd been doing since you left. Do you really want to know?"

Did she? She wasn't sure anymore. It suddenly seemed too terrible to contemplate. But she heard herself whisper, "Yes."

"Falling apart, Kitty." Now his voice broke completely, and he barely choked out the words. "I've been falling apart."

She stared at his back, stunned. This was Matt Dillon – invulnerable, invincible. Matt Dillon. Falling apart? What had she done?

Quickly, but carefully, she laid Sam in the center of the bed, creating a barrier out of the two pillows. Then, touching Matt's arm lightly, she pulled him around to face her, forcing herself not to gasp at the flow of tears down his cheeks.

His face was open and raw, something she had never seen before, _someone_ she had never seen before, not completely. And even past her pain of seeing him like this, she felt a flood of love and protectiveness. She had told Molly McConnell those many years ago that Matt Dillon was a man with no strings on him, but that he was more hers than anybody else's. She had waited twenty years, but now she realized that he _was_ hers. He was hers completely and unquestionably.

"Oh, Matt," she whispered, falling into his arms and burying her face against his bare chest. "Oh, Matt."

He caught her to him fiercely, as if he were terrified she would vanish outside his grip. His chest heaved with the battle to control the sobs he refused to release. His voice shook as he confessed again, "I need you, Kitty. I need you so much."

He needed her. And she needed him. In that moment, she couldn't deny him anything. Not herself, not his son, not his town.

She held him, whispered to him, soothed him, just as he had done for her so many times before. When their trembling finally faded, he lifted his hands to her face and drew her off his chest. Their eyes met, blue on blue, soul on soul. He lowered his mouth to hers, taking her lips tenderly at first, then with an urgency that escaped his control. Her arms tightened around his back, her mouth opened to him, her breasts pushed against his ribs. Some nagging reminder deep within her brain told her to stop, noted that the doctor had not yet released her for such activity. But the overwhelming sensation of being in his arms, tasting his lips on hers, feeling his hard excitement growing against her, swept her away.

All logical thought vanished. She wondered if he would take her there on the floor, or if he would just lift her up against the wall while she wrapped her legs around his waist. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except his body on hers – and, soon, his body _in_ hers.

She groaned as his tongue trailed down her neck and his hands slid up her sides to let the heavy weight of her breasts rest in his large palms. Her milk let down, a natural sensation that didn't distinguish between the causes of stimulation. She wondered if he could tell.

Just when she knew they were passing the point of no return, just when she reached for the straining buttons of his trousers, he tore his mouth away from her and stood there, gasping and sweating.

"Matt?" she groaned, wanting nothing more than for him to take her.

He shook his head, gritting his teeth and fighting for breath. "We can't – not with the baby there – Kitty, I shouldn't have – I'm – I'm sorry."

Her own breath still heaving, she pressed her fingers pressed against his lips. He was right, of course. Damn it. "No. Please don't apologize."

"I just – it's been so long, and I haven't – "

"I know," she assured him. "I haven't either."

As she watched, he steeled himself and straightened, those broad shoulders squaring. When he spoke again, his voice was firm, controlled. "Kitty, listen, for twenty years – longer, really – you've been your own woman, right? I've never told you what to do, even when you wanted me to, maybe.

She nodded, knowing he referred to her short-lived and confused romance with Will Stambridge.

"But – but I have to tell you something now. I should have done it a long time ago."

Her heart leaped, pounding in her chest as she stared at him.

He took her hands into his, almost swallowing them. "I love you, Kitty. I love you and I don't want to be without you. I need you to come back to Dodge with me."

He had finally asked, after all these years. He had actually asked her to come back. Even when she had run off to Ballard, and he had followed her under the pretense of an official law investigation, he hadn't come right out and said he wanted her to come back to Dodge. Now, he had asked, now, when she had finally summoned the courage to break away and survive without the dust of Front Street, now, when she was determined not to re-open that chapter of her life.

Now.

Sighing, she fought for the right words. She desperately loved Matthew Dillon, but she couldn't go back to the life they'd had. Not now. Too much had changed.

"Matt – " she tried.

But he stopped her, shaking his head. "Let me finish – please."

She nodded, nonplussed.

"I need you to come back. I need you to come back because you still love me. You said so, yesterday – or last week – or whenever it was I got stabbed."

Well, she couldn't deny that.

"And because Sam needs a father."

"But what will people say – "

"And because I don't give a damn what people say." He shoved his hands inside his front pants pockets, withdrawing a rich blue velvet bag with his right, kneeling before her as he dumped its contents into his palm

Kneeling?

"Matt, what on earth are you doing?"

She let her gaze drop from his face to see what he held. To her astonishment, in his palm lay a small, golden band, its surface sparkling with diamonds. Her heart skipped a beat, her ears thudded with the uneven pounding, her eyes widened in disbelief. He knelt there, his soul bared to her, his face offering her everything she had ever wanted.

"Matter of fact, they'll probably just say it's about time that idiot marshal came to his senses and married Kitty Russell."

What?

What?

Married? Did he say married? She stared down at him in disbelief, but there he was, kneeling – and on his bad leg, too.

Twenty years. She had teased Matt once, long ago, after their curious encounter with Nip Cullers, that it had taken his housekeeper Nettie twenty years and a little buckshot to snag him. Little could she have known then that her own vigil would be twenty years, as well. At least Matt had avoided the buckshot.

Before she could formulate an answer, even before she knew what her answer would be, he took in another heavy breath and blew it out. "Kitty, I need you to come back because of one more thing." 

In that moment, he opened his other hand, and she saw it, so bold, so symbolic, so damned familiar, lying there in his huge palm.

But it couldn't be. It simply couldn't be.

Somehow, she tore her gaze away long enough to look at him again, and she was struck by the conflict of fear, sadness, hope, and anticipation in his eyes.

After twenty years. It didn't seem possible.

Slowly, unbelievingly, she reached down and lifted the shining piece of metal with her fingers.

"Am I too late, Kitty?" he asked in a whisper.

She stared at the badge, then at him, and wondered.

"_Am I too late?"_

**TBC**


	10. Back in Them

I have been working on this chapter for a while, and it grew to unwieldy proportions, so I've decided to divide it into two chapters; therefore, Chapter Eleven will also be from Doc's POV. This chapter DOES answer some questions, though! I hope the ending isn't too much like a Frank Capra movie. But you know me – don't get too complacent at the end, because it ain't over 'till – well, I won't give it away! This means there are still a couple of chapters left. Please hang in there with me! Thanks, as always, for your super feedback!

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Ten: Back in Them**

POV: Doc

Spoilers: "Disciple"

Rating: PG (Teen)

Disclaimer: These characters (except Sam) are not mine.

**XXXX**

It was just after noon, but the Long Branch already played host to a fair number of patrons, some of them regulars, others of them drifters or cowboys enjoying a few days rest before their outfits headed back out into the harsh and unforgiving prairie. Doc Adams sat at his usual table, close to the back, observing the variety of interactions among those present, wondering, speculating, and chuckling. He wondered what Nathan Burke was supposed to be doing instead of losing his money at a poker table. He speculated about the two scraggly buffalo hunters who had already consumed more than the respectable amount of whiskey before they even entered the saloon. And he chuckled sadly at the ubiquitous sight of Louis Pheeters strolling through the swinging doors, declaring to Floyd that he needed just one little drink to tide him over until Hank paid him for working the stables.

All of those sights flittered across his vision, none lingering with any importance. But there was one man who caught his attention and held it. A seasoned character, his eyes hard, his cheeks mottled with pock marks. If his face wasn't on one of the wanted posters in Matt's office, it probably should have been. He sat at the one poker table that showed any action, hat pulled down over his forehead, ignoring the same half-full glass of rye he had started with an hour before. The doctor considered himself a fair judge of character and decided this fellow bore watching. He bore watching closely.

A sudden jingle of spurs drew his attention from the assorted group. Before he even looked up, he knew he would see Festus Haggen ambling toward him. Sure enough, the deputy marshal had already pushed past the batwing doors and was making his way through the room.

"Howdy, Doc," he greeted, eyes lighting on the physician's glass of beer. "You tekkin' a little break, air ya?"

"That I am, Festus. Why don't you join me?"

The scruffy beard parted in a smile. "Wael, I mite jes' do that," he declared, already sitting. "You – uh – ya finished drinkin', air ya?"

Doc brushed a hand over his jaw. "Finished? Oh, Heaven's no. Just started. Why don't you get one and – "

"That's mighty gen'rus of ya, Doc," he said, before Adams could contradict him. Of course, he had known all along what the deputy's plan was. "Floyd!" he called toward the bar. "Doc here's a buyin' me a beer."

Floyd smiled knowingly and shoved a new glass under the tap, setting it on the counter for Festus to pick up. When he plopped back into the chair, he grinned and took a big gulp. Doc shook his head.

"Whut time is it getting' ta be?" the deputy asked.

Adams withdrew his pocket watch, even though he didn't need to. He knew exactly what time it was, had checked only a few minutes before. "Twelve-forty-seven," he said.

"An' that train gits in 'bout four, don't it?"

"Well, it's supposed to be in at three, but I've never known it to be much on time."

"Naw," Festus agreed. "I ain't neither."

They sat quietly for a few moments as Doc pondered the reason behind Festus' interest in the train's arrival. Leaning back in his chair, he tugged the crumpled telegram from his vest pocket, scanning the sparse words for at least the tenth time since it had arrived the day before.

"RETURNING THURSDAY AFTERNOON TRAIN. STOP. MATT"

Almost a month. Matt had been gone almost a month without a word, and now he had sent just one thrifty, cryptic message. Of course, that one thrifty, cryptic message had been read or heard about by almost the entire town in the few hours since it had arrived. Even though the telegram was directed at him, Doc couldn't berate Barney for spreading the news. For seven months, Dodge had watched Matt Dillon struggle with himself – and with the loss they all knew he had suffered, and most of the citizens had suffered with him. Then he had left again, and although the town remained in the dark, Doc knew he had headed to New Orleans, a bit of information confided to him by Hannah. Every day since then, Doc had lifted a prayer that Kitty was there, and that she wouldn't shut out the man who loved her so deeply he had come close to falling completely apart without her.

But the telegram gave no indication that Matt had even found her, and if he had, that he was bringing her back. As usual, when the lawman went off, Adams wondered what condition he'd return in. More than likely, there would be a new bullet wound or another broken bone, or at the very least an assortment of bruises and abrasions. Years of experience had prepared the Dodge physician for just about anything.

Unfortunately, the one thing he feared the most for Matt was the one thing he had no remedy for: a broken heart.

"Golly Bill," Festus breathed.

Adams' musings scattered. "What?"

The deputy was squinting toward the poker table, his eyes locked on the very man Doc had noticed before. "You know who that thar is, Doc?"

He didn't, but he was already afraid to find out. "Who?"

"That thar is Ben McClagg."

"Ben McClagg?" The name didn't ring a bell. "Who's that?"

"He's jes' about th' fastest feller I ever seen with a gun. Purty near as fast as Matthew before – " Festus broke off, letting his gaze drop.

Doc felt his heart pound. "Why do you reckon he's here in Dodge?" he asked, already sick with the knowledge of what the answer would be.

"I reckon I know," Festus muttered. "I reckon we all know."

Before either of them could decide what to do – if there was anything to do – the doors swung open again to admit a slender young man who didn't look to be a minute over twenty. He strode purposefully into the saloon, his hips strapped with a low-slung gun belt, his eyes hungry. Doc swore under his breath. There was no mistaking this one, either. Another gunman.

"Festus?" he warned.

"I seed 'im." The deputy had eased his hand over his own pistol, watching.

"Whiskey," the boy ordered, leaning casually on the bar. When Floyd produced it, he downed it in a single gulp and turned to face the room. "Anybody here Ben McClagg?" he asked, not wasting a minute.

McClagg froze, cards in his hand. "Who's askin'?" he said after a moment, not looking up.

"Coy Brennan."

"Never heered of 'im," McClagg declared.

"He's heard of you, though," the boy returned.

The veteran gunman gently laid his cards on the green felt and turned his head to look at the youth. "Boy, why don't you jest git you some milk and go back to yor mama before you git hurt."

Doc expected Brennan to explode in youthful fury and die right there, but the young man surprised them all, barely registering the insult. "No, sir," he returned. "I come for what's owed me and mine."

"I told ya, boy, I don't know ya," McClagg insisted. "What could ya want from me?"

"My pa."

The older man rose carefully. "Yer pa? I don't know no Brennan."

"His name weren't Brennan," the kid said. "It was Poole. Henry Poole."

Doc watched the name slam into McClagg's memory and pry open his jaw. The gunman sucked in a breath, held it, then relaxed, his cloak of cool back in place.

"Boy, yer pa an' me parted company years ago. It ain't none of yer business."

"You parted his company by puttin' a bullet in him."

"He tried ta' put one in me. Seemed fair."

"I hear yer fast," Brennan observed.

McClagg narrowed his eyes. "I'm alive."

"So far."

In that moment, Doc saw the older man's finger twitch and figured this foolish kid was only seconds away from the end of his short life. He shot a glance at Festus, wondering what the deputy was going to do, how he would stop the inevitable killing.

"Hang on, thar – " Haggen began, but it was too late.

McClagg drew, his gun blurring from the holster in a motion of lightning. Doc couldn't recall having seen such speed before – at least in the past year. The kid didn't stand a chance. Double retorts sounded in the room, so close they almost blended into one. When they could think again, the two gunmen stood, facing each other. Doc watched to see when the boy would crumble to the floor, pitying a life taken.

But Brennan didn't budge. Instead, face frozen in disbelief, Ben McClagg slowly slid to the ground, eyes fixed, a blossom of crimson soaking through his vest. The entire room stared, stunned.

Nodding once, Coy Brennan spun his Colt casually around his finger before dropping it back into the holster and turning toward the bar again. "It was self-defense, you all saw."

"I ain't never seen anybody so fast!" Burke declared into the following silence. "I mean, 'cept Marshal Dillon, but that was before he was – "

"Burke!" Doc yelled.

The freight clerk jerked, but it didn't matter. Coy Brennan turned back, eyes narrowing. "Marshal Dillon? Would that be _Matt_ Dillon?"

Burke shook his head. "You been livin' in Africa? Of course, it's Matt Dillon."

Calmly, Brennan said, "They used to say he wuz mighty fast."

No one answered.

"Thing is, I heard he met up with a little misfortune 'bout a year ago. Took out his gun arm. Ain't so fast no more."

Festus stepped over McClagg's body so he stood between Burke and the kid. "You jes' don't worry 'bout what you heered," he warned. "Matthew Dillon is still th' best gun around, an' you'd best be rememberin' it."

"That so? Well, then, where can I find the Marshal?" Brennan asked, ignoring the deputy.

"He's not in town," Doc piped up hastily. At least not for another three hours.

The kid clicked his tongue. "Too bad," he smiled, turning back toward the bar once again.

The room waited in silence for at least a minute before Festus finally motioned toward Burke and two other patrons. "You boys git this'un over ta' Percy's."

As they labored under their burden, Doc eyed the slim back of the gunslinger. For the past year, on and off, Dodge had seen a few men come and go, but no one had up and challenged Matt right out, maybe too uncertain about the validity of the rumors they heard. Or maybe just taking a look at the huge marshal dissuaded them fast enough. But Coy Brennan looked just about rash enough and just about foolish enough to follow through. In previous years, Doc would have felt for the young man, almost certain of his fate. But now –

Now he decided he wouldn't mind if that train was late this time. He wouldn't mind at all.

**XXXX**

It figured, of course, that the train was almost on time for once, a fact that caught several citizens by surprise and had them sprinting toward the station so they didn't miss the glimpse of their marshal. Doc stood between Hannah and Festus, his gaze occasionally scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Brennan, but the brash gunslinger hadn't appeared so far. Most of the time, though, his eyes squinted anxiously toward the rear of the passenger car, heart racing away in double time as he contemplated what condition Matt would be in. Smoke billowed from between the train and the tracks, white puffs that halfway masked the first few passengers disembarking. An old man made his way painfully down the steps, one hand clasping the rail, the other holding a cane. Following him, a group of young ladies, looking as if they might be seeking employment in an establishment like the Long Branch, their eyes too old and too worldly to match their bodies. The conductor strolled along the side of the train, supervising the unloading of baggage. After another interminable few moments, Doc saw him.

He emerged from the back door of the car, tall body bent slightly under the overhang, hat tugged low over his eyes so that Doc couldn't see his expression. It was a little surprising to see that he wore his dark pants and dress coat, but then he usually chose that outfit when he traveled by train. The physician's practiced eye watched for any sign of injury or pain, took particular notice of the slight limp when the marshal walked the few feet to the steps. Not bad, though – certainly better than it had been when he left. He had not returned unscathed, however. No one there could miss the white sling that cradled his left arm.

Doc shook his head.

Dillon paused on the platform for a moment, letting his eyes survey his town in a long-established habit. After a moment, his broad chest heaved a sigh and he took the steps at an even pace, stopping when he reached the ground. Doc's heart sank as he realized the man was alone, and he felt unbidden anger at Kitty Russell flood him. He had held out hope to that very moment that she would come back, knowing that If she had seen Matt, if she had watched him barely hold himself together – and sometimes _not _hold himself together – she wouldn't have turned him back.

But now, he had come home – alone. Now, what would he do? What would any of them do?

He felt Hannah's eyes on him and turned to her, seeing his sadness mirrored there. They had encouraged him to go after her, to risk himself again – and now they would have to deal with the consequences. It was the least they could do for him. Adams closed his eyes, his heart heavy and aching for the man who was the closest thing he had to a son. But he owed Matt too much to wallow in his own grief. Forcing his eyes open again, he prepared to do his best to lend what strength his could to his friend.

Instead of plodding heavily toward them, however, bent under his burden, broken by this catastrophe, the marshal turned again and extended his right arm up toward the steps. Doc frowned, confused for a moment before his heart skipped a beat as his brain grabbed onto the glimmer of hope that action caused. At first nothing happened, no one stepped forward to take the offered hand. Then, a miracle occurred, clothed in a familiar flash of color that appeared from the shadows of the platform.

Tears sprang to his eyes when he saw her, as slender and as beautiful as ever, clad in a fashionable pale green and black travel suit, matching hat perched saucily on her brilliant hair.

She was back. Kitty Russell was back, and suddenly beauty and fire and spirit returned to Dodge.

Because Miss Kitty was back.

"Thank you," he breathed to the Almighty, his words completely heartfelt, the tears trailing down his cheeks. "Thank you."

And just like that, the world was right again. Just like that, the worries and concerns and over eight months of misery vanished. The crowd that had gathered at the station broke out into a cacophony of exclamations at the sight, the rumble of voices growing so that he had to raise his own volume to be heard.

Shaking his head, he turned to Hannah, whose grin matched his own. "By golly," he declared.

"Yessiree," she returned.

Adams ran a hand over his mustache and laughed aloud, figuring things just couldn't get any better. He turned to slap Festus on the back, but stopped at the shocked expression of the craggy face. Before he could ask about the deputy's unexpected reaction, he heard a collective gasp from the crowd, followed by abrupt silence.

"What in tarnation – " Festus began.

Doc let his gaze snap back to the returning couple and saw immediately what had caused the reaction. Kitty had moved to the edge of the platform, the sunlight bringing her out of the shadows and revealing a small bundle of blue that she now handed carefully down to Matt so she could descend the steps.

The doctor's eyes widened until he felt the sting of the ubiquitous dust of the street in them. Why, that bundle appeared to be – that is, it seemed as if –

Doggone it – if it didn't look like big, strapping U.S. Marshal Matt Dillon was cradling a little bitty baby in the crook of his gun arm.

A baby?

A baby.

By golly. A baby!

In that moment, it all made sense. It took only a few seconds for the entire situation to snap into place in the doctor's mind. Kitty's increased anxiety about Matt's leaving, her insistence on going before he returned, and her determination not to let them know where she would be.

A baby.

He would have paid good money to have been a fly on the wall when Matt found out – or maybe it was just as well he hadn't been. My goodness, that had to have been a shock. He had no doubt the big man knew nothing at all about a –

A baby!

The town stood frozen, staring at the small family. Kitty's face was tight, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip, revealing her anxiety. Matt stood close to her, body slightly in front, as if he were shielding her from the speculation, from the judgment. His own lips pressed together in that look that dared the foolish soul to cross him.

But he needn't have worried. After they recovered from the shock of realizing that, not only had the marshal brought Kitty back to Dodge, but he seemed to have acquired an addition, they practically rushed the three, cries of welcome and congratulations tumbling over each other.

It took Doc, Festus, and Hannah considerable effort to push their way through the group and up to the stunned couple. Kitty looked floored as the women of the town who had cut their eyes at her in disdain before embraced her and welcomed her home. The men settled for patting Dillon on the shoulder, since both hands were otherwise occupied. Finally, the physician found himself standing in front of the two people he had known for so many years, had seen through so much.

Kitty stared at him for a moment before throwing her arms around him and kissing him soundly on the cheek. "Oh, Curly!" she cried. "I missed you so much!"

Unable to suppress his swell of tears, he allowed the display, wiping at his nose and shaking his head. Festus gave him a moment's rescue when he stepped in, wrapping his arms around Kitty and lifting her in an unabashed demonstration of hill country joy.

"Hey, now," Matt protested gamely, doing absolutely nothing to stop the display.

Doc turned to the big man, marveling at the difference in him. His blue eyes twinkled, bright and full again. His face was smoother, the lines not as deep. He even seemed taller, although Doc couldn't figure out how that might have happened. That defeated, world-weary weight that had worn him down the past months had lifted, replaced by a freshly overhauled ease that was close enough to the old Matt to make no difference.

"Matt," he greeted, eyes relaying the pleasure he couldn't express verbally. "You okay?"

The marshal returned the look, nodding and smiling in understanding. "Yeah." Simple as it was, the response conveyed a much more complex message.

The doctor's gaze fell to the squirming child swallowed up in the crook of Matt's arm. "I don't – I'm not sure what to say here – " he started.

Matt chuckled, and Adams had to grin at the trace of shock that still lingered on the lawman's face. "Believe me, Doc, I know what you mean."

Leaning over to take the child from his father, Kitty handed him to the doctor. "I know what you can say. You can say hello to Matthew Samuel Dillon, Doc."

The announcement created an explosion of exclamations through the crowd as those closest to the train spread the news to those farthest away.

It was almost impossible to realize what had happened, almost impossible to comprehend that he was standing there holding Matt Dillon's and Kitty Russell's child. He never thought it would happen. The baby opened his eyes to look up at this new human being, and Doc saw the perfect mixture of his parents in him. Sky blue eyes, fair skin, soft curls of red-brown hair, long, slender fingers.

"My goodness," he breathed. "My goodness."

"Let me see th' little feller," Festus insisted, pushing his way closer.

"Don't crowd, Festus," Doc admonished. "You'll scare him to death with that scraggly face of yours."

"I'll hev you know, I got me a way with younguns."

"Helps to be on the same mental level," Doc muttered.

Moving in to counter the argument, Hannah smiled. "He sure is a fine lookin' boy, Marshal."

Matt's only answer was a broad grin.

Festus had focused on a series of goos and gaas to entertain the infant. For his part, Sam seemed to contemplate these strange people and find them lacking. His little face screwed up for a moment before he let out a bellow that didn't need translating even for the people in the back of the crowd.

"See? Here, Kitty," Doc offered hastily, holding the baby out, "I think you need to take him back."

"He's hungry," she confided softly. "Can we use your office?"

"What? Oh, sure." He rested a hand at her elbow. "Sure. Come on."

"I'll get the bags and meet you up there, Kitty," Matt said, then shocked the entire town by leaning down and kissing her, right there in broad daylight, right there at the train station – and right there on the lips.

Doc shook his head, his amazement complete – almost.

The shock only continued. Smiling at Matt, Kitty reached her left hand up to give his cheek a brief caress. In that moment, something flashed, caught by the sun. Her hand lingered only a moment at his face, but it was long enough for all of them to see the sparkle of the ring that graced her third finger, left hand.

Doc's jaw dropped at the sight of the familiar band, the band he had removed from the pocket of a drunk, despairing U.S. marshal over half a year ago; the band that signified twenty years of a woman's love and patience – the band that he'd never really thought he'd see on her finger.

But there it was.

"Doc," Hannah gasped, "is that – "

"It sure is," he affirmed in satisfaction. "It sure is. Mrs. _Dillon_?" he asked, loud enough to be heard over the noise.

Kitty turned and smiled radiantly.

"Yippee!" Festus crowed, flinging his hat into the air.

If news of their arrival had traveled fast, this revelation spread through the crowd like a prairie fire. The murmurs grew to outright declarations, which blossomed into yells, which finally erupted into cheers and wild applause. The marshal looked astounded at the ovation, staring at the hundreds of his fellow citizens who had packed the station to welcome him home. Not usually prone to blatant displays, Doc Adams nevertheless found himself joining the celebration with his own hoots.

There was absolutely no doubt what the headlines of the Dodge paper would be the next day.

Over the noise of the crowd, Festus leaned in and yelled in his ear. "Did ya see 'em, Doc?"

Doc stopped cheering long enough to ask, "What?"

"Matthew's eyes," the deputy clarified, as if the physician were dense.

"What's wrong with his eyes?"

"Why, nairy a thang, Doc."

"Festus, what are you – "

"Cain't ya see? She's back in 'em!"

"Back in – "

"Miss Kitty," Festus repeated, grinning. "She's back in 'em, Doc. She's back in his eyes."

His heart swelled with that statement. Sometimes ol' Festus could hit on something. Almost overcome, he peered up at the towering form that stood, tall and broad, right arm snug around Kitty's waist, grin wide and open. They were looking at Matt Dillon, a man whose clear blue eyes were once again filled with warmth, and with humor, and with love – and with her.

Nope, he didn't figure it could get any better. Bursting with pride for Matt and Kitty, he let his eyes watch the crowd, enjoying the unconditional acceptance the town seemed to be giving them, the universal show of pure delight over the surprise.

But then he realized he was wrong. Not everyone showed delight. In the distance, leaning casually against a porch post, a slender, young man watched. Doc knew if he were closer, he would recognize hungry eyes and a low-slung holster – and a disturbingly fast hand.

**TBC**


	11. It's Your Funeral

Whew – well, I ignored the research paper I'm supposed to be writing and worked on this instead. Got my priorities right, at least! So sorry for the long wait. Thanks to all for your super feedback and patience (and gentle prompting). Hope you enjoy. And Piglet – before you say it, I already know those arm-rippers are warming up!

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Eleven: It's Your Funeral**

POV: Doc

Spoilers: "Disciple"

Rating: PG (Teen)

Disclaimer: Of course, the regular Dodge citizens are not my creation, but I've thrown in a few guest stars, including Sam Dillon and Coy Brennan.

**XXXX**

Doc Adams picked up the fretting infant and hoisted him onto his shoulder to sooth the baby's protests from the examination. In the crook of Matt's long arm, Sam had looked tiny, but now, as the physician's muscles felt the weight of the marshal's son, Doc realized Samuel Dillon was quite a substantial kid. No real surprise there, but a pleasant confirmation.

"He's a fine, healthy baby, Kitty," Doc said, just as pleased as Kitty that he could give her that news. "Gonna be almost as big as his daddy, I think."

His daddy had reluctantly deposited his family at Doc's office earlier, claiming he would return in just a few minutes after taking their bags to the room Mr. Dobie still held for him at the Dodge House. Doc had to smile at the hesitancy in the usually decisive man's actions over the brief separation from his wife and son, still not quite able to believe everything that had happened since Matt had first begun his tenacious search for Kitty eight months before.

"I coulda told ya' that," she smiled, taking Sam and easing him into the bassinette Doc had dragged out from the back of his office. The child had been fed and checked out, and now he was more than ready for a nap.

And it was Kitty's turn for Doc to inspect.

Separating business issues from personal issues, he handed her a sheet and turned away so that she could undress. "Hop up on the table and let me know when you're ready," he said, then busied himself with getting his instruments prepared. "Matt won't want to wait too long, I'll bet. It's none of my business, of course, Kitty, but what happened between you and Matt, in New Orleans, I mean?"

He heard the hint of amazement in her voice. "He came after me, Doc. He asked me to come back."

Adams knew what that simple gesture had meant. "I can't imagine what happened when you told him about Sam."

She breathed out, almost a laugh, but not quite. "He passed out."

The doctor spun around, forgetting about Kitty's state of undress. Fortunately, she had already slid under the sheet. Matt Dillon passed out? "What?"

She smiled ruefully. "Well, actually he fainted because he'd lost so much blood and because he was so exhausted, but I don't figure finding out about Sam helped him stay conscious."

"Exhausted?" Doc asked, his physician's ears perking up.

Abruptly her face darkened as she admitted, "The doctor in New Orleans said he must have been neglecting himself for – for a while. Was he right?"

Torn between honesty and putting more guilt on her, he shrugged. "It wasn't – it wasn't easy for him, Kitty," he said. "When he came back from Hays and you were gone – "

"He told me he got drunk," she said, eyes sad.

Doc's brow rose in surprise that Matt would have admitted to that rare bout of weakness. "He did. My fault. I offered it to him."

"Tell me what else," she urged.

"Kitty – "

"I need to know, Doc. Even if – even if it's bad."

He nodded and braced a hand on the edge of the table. "He was like – well, like a shell of who he used to be. He went about his business, did his job, but Matt Dillon was missing. His heart was gone, Kitty. It was out there looking for you, even when his body was in town."

She nodded, accepting what he said, tears welling in her eyes.

"He'd go out weeks at a time on some assignment, but we all knew he was looking for you at the same time. Sometimes he'd come back hurt, but it didn't seem to faze him. That last time – that last time he was in bad shape."

"Shot?" she guessed.

"No, not that time," he said, indicating it had happened on other occasions.

"His leg, then," she surmised.

"And his back. Plus, he'd gotten into it with an outlaw. A few cuts and scrapes."

"I saw them," she whispered, looking past Doc as if she were envisioning the new marks on the lawman's generously scarred body. "And the others."

"But it was his spirit that was injured the most. I was afraid – " He broke off, voice cracking.

She placed her hand on his arm. "Afraid of what?"

"Afraid it was too far gone to heal."

She absorbed this observation with poignant silence, her eyes shimmering. After a narrowly-won struggle to maintain control, she asked hoarsely, "What changed?"

"Don't know. He just appeared at my office later that day, shaved and in his Sunday clothes, saying he was going to New Orleans and didn't know when he'd be back. I thought he'd already checked down there – a few dozen times, in fact."

"He had. I was actually kinda surprised it took him so long to figure out that I'd used _his_ name."

"Well," Doc allowed, "he wasn't thinking too clearly there for a while. Used his name, huh?"

"I guess I wanted to hang onto him somehow still. And I wanted Sam to be a Dillon."

He chuckled and leaned over the bassinette, thrusting a finger into the strong grip of Matt's son. "He is that," he agreed. Doc studied her for a minute, then said, "Kitty, you know I can't help but ask how that ring finally ended up on your finger."

She smiled in memory, and he was warmed by the pleasure that softened her face. "When Matt could get up and about, Ira arranged for the wedding. He and Charlotte are Catholic, but he knew an Episcopal priest who could make it short and sweet."

Doc raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you wanted?"

"I didn't want to leave too much time between the askin' and the gettin'!" she joked.

"Matt wasn't going to change his mind," he told her, his serious tone breaking through her lightness.

She smiled. "I know. He came to New Orleans to propose. He had to have brought the ring with him, because he didn't leave Ira's house at all until right before the wedding when we had to find a tailor to fit him for a new coat."

"New coat?" Doc asked.

"The old one – wasn't salvageable."

Of course, he realized. The knife. After Matt had left them, Kitty had related a brief version of the events on _The New Orleans Lady_. "I wouldn't think going through a fitting would be too comfortable for him with that shoulder."

She grimaced. "You'd be right."

Not wanting to lose the joy of the reunion, he prompted, "So, you found an obliging priest – "

"An obliging _Episcopal_ priest," she reminded, stressing the difference. "He was a little hesitant to marry us at first. I think he wanted to make sure we were really in love or something." She smirked. "Couldn't be 'cause we were too young. Anyway, that was until Sam decided to pipe up. Charlotte was holding him, so I guess the priest figured he was hers. But it had taken us a while to get there, and Sam was hungry by the time the ceremony was about to start, so I had to take him and slip away for a while. The priest realized he wasn't Charlotte's and when we returned, he made short work of the ceremony. I thought he was going to glare a hole right through Matt before it was over."

Doc chuckled, imaging the scene and wishing, for more than one reason, that he had been there.

"Good thing he _wasn't_ Catholic," she decided.

"Why's that?"

"We probably wouldn't have gotten out of there without saying at least twenty Hail Marys and a dozen Our Fathers," she laughed.

Doc had to admit that was probably pretty close to the truth.

"And it wasn't because of Sam," she breathed, "although I thought it was at first. I was afraid – I didn't want him to – to feel obligated. I didn't want him to ask just because – "

"He didn't," Doc assured her.

"I know." She held up her hand and gazed at the shining band. It looked much more at home on her finger than it had in his hand those months ago.

"It's a beautiful ring, Kitty," he told her sincerely.

"Isn't it? He won't tell me where he got it, but it's too fine for Jonas' store."

Doc watched her for a moment. "He got it in Hays City."

She glanced toward him. "He told you about the ring?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

He hesitated, wondering how much he should tell her. "Kitty, Matt got that ring in Hays – eight months ago."

Her eyebrows drew together. "Eight months – "

"He came back with it on that last trip before you – before – " He dropped off, seeing pleasure retreat with the advance of horror across her fine features.

"Doc, what are you saying?"

Sighing, he just shook his head. It was already clear.

"You mean Matt – if I hadn't left, he was going to – "

He saw the realization of eight lost months smash through her, the thoughts of those irretrievable moments. Chances forever gone. The chance to see his face when she told him she was pregnant. The chance to share their wedding with their friends. The chance to have him there for the birth of his child. The chance to watch him hold his newborn son in his hands.

"After he found out you were gone," he continued, "he came to my office to see if I knew where."

"That's why I didn't tell you," she murmured ruefully.

"He was – I've never seen Matt like that. I figured if any man ever needed a drink, he did. I told him how long you'd been gone and added what you'd told me before you left."

A groan slipped past her lips. "Oh, Doc."

"You know Matt only drinks a couple of beers at most. Maybe a shot or two of whiskey. But that flask was about empty by the time he passed out on my bed."

She closed her eyes, and he saw she couldn't even manage a response. Despite the pain he knew it was causing her, he continued, realizing she needed – and wanted – to know.

"I saw that he had taken a bullet across the ribs a few days back, so I did my best to clean that up."

Automatically, her eyes opened, the ubiquitous worry clear in them. "Was it – "

"Not bad," he said, already knowing the questions from years of experience with both of them.

"That's where that came from," she whispered, more to herself than to him.

"His clothes were pretty rough from the trail, so I figured I could at least have them cleaned for him. When I picked up his pants, the jewelry bag fell out and I found the ring and realized what he had planned. He doesn't know I knew about it, so don't say anything to him."

"Oh, Doc," she groaned. "He was going to – and I was gone – " She dropped her head, burying her face in her hands, oblivious to the sheet that fell. "Oh my God. What did I do?"

Clearing his throat, he eased the corner of the sheet back up so she could cover herself again. "Now, Kitty, it's all right. It turned out all right, didn't it?"

"But, he was going to – and I – oh, Doc, what did I do?"

"You did what you thought was best for you and for him – and for Sam."

"But – "

"No buts. Is he happy now?"

"Yes."

"Then that's enough."

"Maybe."

"Kitty," he asked carefully, not wanting to bring up any more worries for her, but not able to shake the nagging and disturbing reminder of Coy Brennan. "How's his arm?"

She sighed. "The right one?"

He nodded. Her question was just conversation. She knew which arm.

"Okay, I guess. It worked well enough to shoot and kill the guy that threw the knife at him."

Doc frowned, unsure of how to phrase his question without making her suspicious. "Kitty, did he seem – was he as fast – "

She shook her head. "I don't know. It was hard to tell. The knife was already thrown before Matt even knew to draw."

"If the man had had a gun, could Matt have outdrawn him?"

"I don't know." She frowned, eyes narrowing. He had pushed a little too much. "Is there a reason you're asking this now?"

He dropped his gaze, unwilling to tell her that what they had all feared might be happening – that a fresh, cocky, talented, young, gunslinger had come for Matt, to test the veteran lawman, to see if he could beat the legend – a challenge that would end only in death. And after Doc had seen Coy Brennan in action, he was all too afraid it could be _Matt's_ death.

"Doc?" she asked, a little more forcefully this time.

Shaking his head, he hoped he appeared casual. "No," he said, accepting his own cowardice for the moment. "No reason. I was just wondering."

Her expression told him she didn't buy it, but he pressed on quickly before she could prod him more. "Since you're back, does that mean you're okay with him being marshal?"

It was her turn to surprise him. "He took care of that, too."

"What do you mean?"

A tender smile curved her lips. "The ring wasn't the only thing he gave me, Doc."

"No?" he asked, curiously.

"He gave me his badge, too."

Adams felt his jaw drop. "His badge?"

"He's retiring, Doc. The War Department asked him to stay on until the end of the year, but after that – "

Retiring? Son of a gun. After all those years of nagging Matt about putting himself in the line of fire, the physician thought he'd be completely relieved by that news. Instead, Doc felt a strange regret with the realization that Matt Dillon would no longer be the driving force of sanity and order in Dodge City.

Suppressing that selfish notion, he pushed a genuine smile to his face. "Well, my goodness! Congratulations, Kitty," he offered. "It's about time that big knucklehead came to his senses."

"Yeah," she agreed, but to his surprise, the tone was only half-hearted.

"Isn't that what you've wanted?"

"Sure. Of course it is," she confirmed, the smile returning. Taking a deep breath and lying down, she said, "Now, get on with this check up. This table's not the most comfortable, you know."

Suddenly uncertain, he nodded and began the exam.

**XXXX**

A few minutes later, Doc carefully slid the sheet back up over her breasts, satisfied with the results of his inspection.

"Well?"

He turned away to give her privacy, a little ironic, considering the thoroughness of the exam he had just conducted. "You can get dressed now, Kitty."

He heard the rustle of clothes behind him for a second before she asked again, "Well?"

"Well what?"

An exasperated sigh preceded her clarification. "Well, how am I?"

"Oh!" he answered obtusely. "Oh, well, you're fine. Just fine."

"So I can – I mean, Matt and I can – "

It dawned on him abruptly why she was so anxious for the exam. Suddenly understanding, he turned back to her. "You mean your doctor in New Orleans hasn't examined you?"

Kitty stood in her underclothes. Even though she didn't seem to mind, he turned away again. "A couple of weeks ago," she said, "but not recently. He spent most of his time checking on Matt, and by the time I felt like – well – Ira and Charlotte were there, and – and we were in a hurry to get back here, and – the train didn't have sleeper cars – " She stopped suddenly and glared at him. "Well, it's been almost two months, so I figure that – that should be long enough, right?"

Adams cleared his throat uneasily. "You mean you and Matt haven't – "

She shook her head, the misery apparently too deep to worry about embarrassment.

Doc dropped his head, turning again so she wouldn't see the smile he couldn't hold back. "Well, I don't know, Kitty," he said, taking his time putting away the instruments. "I think maybe you'd better wait just a little while longer."

"_What?"_ Frustration edged her voice. "How much longer?"

Somehow, he managed the answer, but only by not looking at her. "Oh, no more'n two or three weeks – "

"Two or three weeks!" she exclaimed in sheer disbelief.

With effort, he said, "Well, you want to be sure. I mean, a woman's body goes through a lot having a baby – "

"I _know_ what a woman's body goes through," she snapped.

"So you'll agree that you want to be sure that – " He looked at her, clothed again, and found himself joking only a little now. Considering who her lover – her _husband_ – was, he realized his teasing held more than a little validity. "Kitty, Matt's – well, he's – "

"He's what, Doc?" she asked, frowning in confusion.

He sighed, not sure exactly how to phrase his concern. "Well, Matt's a big fellow, and – "

Aghast, he exclaimed, "Doc!"

"This is strictly medical advice, Kitty," he insisted, coloring.

Agony marred her beautiful features. "Doc," she groaned, then leaned a little closer, as if she were speaking in strict confidence, even though Sam was the only other occupant of the room. "Doc, you don't _understand_."

"I don't?"

"I _can't_ wait. Do you know how long it's been since Matt and I – well, do you have any idea how hard it's been this past week on the trip from New Orleans?"

He felt true sympathy for her – and maybe even more for Matt. "Kitty – "

"I mean, you have _no_ idea."

He was a man, so he figured he had at least some idea. "It's only for a few more weeks, Kitty," he pushed, falling back into the ruse.

"A few more weeks is about a few weeks and a _minute_ too long."

"It's been hard, has it?" he asked, chuckling.

"Let me assure you, Doc, it's been hard." Then her eyes twinkled, and she leaned closer. "I mean _real_ hard."

The innuendo he had missed the first time slapped him right in the face. Realization of what she was saying burned in his cheeks, and he fumbled with a jar on his desk, knocking it onto the floor where its content scattered in white puffs. Coughing roughly, then clearing his throat, he said, "Well, for Pete's sake, Kitty. You don't have to – I mean I didn't need to know – "

That marvelous laugh erupted from her, the sound he loved and had missed for so many months. "Serves you right, Curly. Don't tell me you weren't having a little fun yourself. _Two or three weeks_?"

He eyed her, then he relaxed and allowed a smirk to flatten his lips. "Well, I was mostly kidding. Still, as your doctor, I want you to be careful at first. Nice and easy, okay."

"Doc – "

"I'm serious." He thought about the look in Matt's eyes when the marshal had left her earlier. "You tell Matt, nice and easy."

"Doc!"

But this time he was really serious, and let his expression show it.

"All right," she conceded. "But Matt's not the only one who'll have to be reminded."

"I don't doubt that at all," he said, knowing Kitty was just as anxious to – well, to – From the look in Kitty's eyes, maybe she wasn't the one he should be worried about. Grunting, he swiped his mustache and made a mental note to take a long look at Matt in the morning – assuming she actually let him out of bed while it was still considered morning. "Just – "

"I know. Nice and easy," she agreed amiably, even though he knew she was probably just patronizing him.

"You tell Matt I want to see that shoulder tomorrow, and don't make it worse tonight."

"You," she declared, carrying Sam out the door, "are a dirty old man."

"I resent that!" he bristled, calling after her. "I'm not that old."

**XXXX**

Chuckling, he had barely turned back to clear up the office, when her terrified cry propelled him as fast as his aging legs could carry him to the door. When he reached the landing, he saw Kitty standing on the third step from the bottom, Sam clutched protectively to her breast.

"Kitty?" he asked, confused.

But she didn't answer, couldn't pull her attention away from whatever was happening on Front Street. Slowly, Doc realized the entire town was gathered on the rough boardwalks and in the alleys of Dodge, wide gazes fixed on the all-too-familiar scene that was unfolding before them. A scene Doc had watched over and over for the past twenty years.

A scene he had hoped never to see again.

Slowly, he climbed down the steps, passing Kitty and standing so that he had a better view of the situation. Matt Dillon stood, still in his dress clothes, the right tail of his new wedding coat brushed back over the butt of his pistol for easier access. The stance was one they had seen hundreds of times before: long legs braced wide, right arm hanging at his side, eyes forward and set. He had slipped his left arm out of the sling so that it hung straight as well. Twenty-five yards away, another man stood, a slender man whose cold eyes stared out from a young face, whose gun belt rode his hips low.

Heart pounding, Adams scrambled through the possible outcomes in his brain. None of them were appealing. Brennan was fast, maybe too fast, and Matt's arm hadn't been truly tested since the injury over a year before. Would he be able to outdraw a kid half his age, a kid who apparently hadn't yet embraced the concept of his own mortality, a kid who didn't have a brand-new wife and baby watching as horrified witnesses to his possible death?

"_Oh, Matt,_" he thought, trying to force the words across the distance from his mind to the marshal's. "_Don't do it. Let the kid go. This time, let him go. Dive behind a wagon or a horse trough, or something. It's not worth it._"He heard Sam whimper in Kitty's arms. "_Dear God, it's not worth it._"

"Dillon!" Brennan called. "They say you're fast. That true?"

The eyes of Dodge shifted to the marshal.

"You don't want to find out, son," Matt said, his body still unmoving, his eyes still fixed on the target. He'd given the warning many times before, but Doc wondered if it was still backed by the same skill.

"Heard you fell into some misfortune a while back," the young man taunted. "Maybe you ain't as fast no more. Maybe you're just too old and shot up."

Matt didn't respond, merely continued to hold his position. Doc's heart felt as if it were coming right through his chest. Stepping back, he stood next to Kitty, slipping an arm around her waist to brace her, not sure what would happen if she saw Matt gunned down right in front of her and their son.

"Why don't you just back away and head on out of town while you still have the chance," Matt suggested calmly.

That just drew a harsh laugh from Brennan. "Why don't _you_, old man? Admit you're beat, and I'll let you walk outta here. Saw ya come into town with that pretty wife of yours and that baby. Be a shame fer her ta watch ya die screaming in the dirt there with yer guts spillin' out."

Kitty groaned softly, and Doc tightened his grip on her. Matt remained silent, a defending champion standing ready for the challenger to make his move.

"Whadda ya say, Dillon?" Brennan pushed.

Again, Matt didn't move or speak, apparently understanding that the moment was inevitable.

Brennan smiled in approval, a calculated, confident, thinning of his lips over white teeth. "All right, lawman. It's your funeral." The gunslinger grew serious then, his hungry eyes narrowing in focus on the man he faced. His hand hovered menacingly over his holster, his body hunched slightly forward.

If time could freeze, Doc knew in that moment that no clock hand moved, no breeze blew, no spectator took a breath. Dodge stopped. The world stopped. He wondered briefly if it would ever start again.

Then, both Dodge and the world erupted with the shocking double-retort of gunfire, and the physician's heart leaped into his throat with nauseating terror as he watched Matt Dillon's big body jerk violently and hurl backward to crash onto the dusty street.

Adams barely heard Kitty's cry right next to him, hardly registered the shocked gasps from the crowd.

"Please, God, no," he prayed as he stumbled out into the street, ignoring the fact that Brennan might be trigger-happy and gun him down before he could even reach Matt. Over and over, he beseeched the Almighty. For Matt, for Kitty, for Sam. For all of them.

"Please, God!"

But the lawman lay unmoving, the dirt under his body already damp and clotting with his blood, the once-sure and unerring pistol lying useless by his limp hand.

After all those years, after everything he had survived, after finding Kitty and discovering Sam, it couldn't end like this. It just couldn't!

"Please, God!" he pleaded, falling down beside the son he wished he had. "Please!"

**TBC**


	12. All Over Again

Somehow, this chapter wrote itself faster than usual. My Matt chapters usually do, not sure why. I have a feeling Piglet's still going to have those arm-rippers warming up, though… Thanks to all for the super feedback and for hanging in there with me through this saga. I hope you enjoy this chapter. (And, yes, I should have been working on my research paper instead of writing this. Oh well.)

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Twelve: All Over Again**

POV: Matt

Spoilers: "There Was Never a Horse;" "Kimbro;" "Disciple"

Rating: Teen (PG)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

**XXXX**

The kid was going to draw, there was no doubt about that. For the twenty-plus years Matt Dillon had been facing down gunslingers and outlaws, he had become an expert at reading the eyes of his opponents. It had kept him alive – at least so far. And he knew without a doubt that this boy, no more than twenty at the most, more peach fuzz than whiskers, was going to draw.

The marshal was on his way back to Doc's office after depositing his and Kitty's bags at the Dodge House, anxious to be near his family again, the ache in his chest with even a brief separation a new, but not totally unpleasant, sensation for him. He had just stepped back onto the street when the call of his name stopped him abruptly. Just the tone alerted him to the intent of its owner, even before he turned to see the slender young man standing in the middle of Front Street.

As he always did, the lawman squared himself, remembering with irritation to ease his left arm from the sling for balance, wincing at the pull on the tender shoulder. Carefully, he pushed his coattail back over the handle of his gun, hoping it didn't look like he was drawing, yet. But his opponent just waited patiently.

A crowd had formed almost immediately, made up of the curious, the anxious, the horrified, and the amused. Mostly, though, it was made up of tense citizens who had just greeted him a couple of hours before at the train station, their friendship and support overwhelming. It was not his intention to die in the street in front of those people.

"Who are ya?" he called to the kid.

"Brennan," came the reply. "Coy Brennan."

He'd never heard of him, and wondered which one of the many possible reasons this boy had chosen for coming after Matt Dillon. Opening his mouth, he started to ask what Brennan wanted, but a startled cry stopped him just as a flash of color and movement to his left caught his eye. Not taking his focus off the gunman, he still was able to discern that Kitty now stood at the bottom of the stairs going up to Doc's office. Sam was in her arms.

Damn.

In all the years he had faced down enemies, he had never worried about the distractions around him, had never really had distractions. His death meant only _his_ death – even though deep down he always knew how it would have affected Kitty. Now, though – now he had made the commitment to her and to his child. His death meant more – much more.

Damn.

Another figure moved just within his line of sight. Doc stepped past Kitty, and even though he didn't dare turn to look at the physician, Matt could feel the older man's eyes on him, could almost hear the plea for him to back off, to let the kid take the day. But Matt knew he couldn't do that – and it had nothing to do with pride. He was still a U.S. Marshal, still the law, still committed to duty.

Painfully, he blocked the thoughts of Doc, and even Kitty and Sam, from his mind and concentrated on the man whose sole purpose at the moment was to kill him.

"Dillon!" Brennan called. "They say you're fast. That true?"

He felt the town watching him, waiting for him to respond.

"You don't want to find out, son," he promised, believing it. He _had_ to believe it, or he was doomed already.

"Heard you fell into some misfortune a while back," Brennan taunted. "Maybe you ain't as fast no more. Maybe you're just too old and shot up."

The veteran lawman almost laughed at the kid's voicing of the very suggestion he had been mulling over recently himself. Too old and shot up. He most probably was, not that it mattered. "Why don't you just back away and head on out of town while you still have the chance," he advised, knowing the advice wouldn't be heeded.

The boy laughed, not a pleasant sound. "Why don't _you_, old man? Admit you're beat, and I'll let you walk outta here. Saw ya come into town with that pretty wife of yours and that baby. Be a shame fer her ta watch ya die screaming in the dirt there with yer guts spillin' out."

The thought of Kitty and Sam as witnesses to his death tore at him, but he fought to keep himself calm. Brennan wanted him distracted, needed for him to be worried, to lose his edge. Well, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction – _couldn't_ give him the satisfaction.

"Whadda ya say, Dillon?"

Matt was through talking. The time for action had arrived, and he just waited.

Brennan smiled, and Matt saw reluctant approval in the young man's cold eyes. "All right, lawman," he conceded. "It's your funeral."

Matt stared into those eyes, ignoring every other part of the boy's body. He never watched the hands twitch, never checked for the feet to move. A man's eyes told the whole story and gave away his draw a hundredth of a second before it happened.

He knew, maybe even before Brennan, when the kid was going to go for the gun. But the blur of the young hand surprised even Matt, and his gun was up and firing quicker than the marshal had anticipated. His own hand had drawn automatically, his finger squeezing the trigger as soon as the iron cleared the leather. His ears heard the double-retort, and he knew that Brennan's bullet had beaten his. The burst of pain at his temple was mercifully short before the survivor of twenty years of gunfights was jerked into a world of total darkness.

**XXXX**

The first sensations Matt Dillon knew were a throbbing stab in his head and a warm trickle down the side of his face. Those were hardly ever good omens. He was pretty sure he wasn't dead; although, having never been in that state before, he couldn't rely completely on the assumption. In fact, the next thing he noticed might actually support the possibility that he had gone on to meet his maker. Somewhere close by someone was praying, not the soothing, calm tone he would have expected from angels, however. This prayer sounded desperate and persistent.

"Please God. Please God."

Pain, blood, and prayer. The three combined to indicate that something unpleasant had happened, something _extremely_ unpleasant – and it had happened to _him_.

After a moment, he became aware of the rough ground beneath his back. Having found himself lying on a Dodge street more than once over the years, he conceded that being there once more wasn't a comforting sensation. Concentrating past the pain, he managed to squint open his eyes in an effort to increase his information about the situation and found himself looking up into the agonized face of Doc Adams. As soon as blue eyes met gray, though, the expression changed, and a broad, relieved smile broke across the doctor's weathered features.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed. "Thank God!"

At least Doc's enthusiasm lent support to the theory that he was still alive.

"Doc?" he asked, irritated that his voice sounded so weak. He attempted to push up on his elbows for a better view, but the burn deep in his shoulder forced him back down.

"Matt?"

He turned his head, grimacing at the new bout of torture that movement caused. It was worth it, though, to see Kitty kneeling beside him, fear and tears streaked across her cheeks. She smiled suddenly, bending to kiss him and run her fingers through his hair. But behind the relief, he saw the old haunted look, and it twisted deep inside him to know he put that look there.

"Kitty?"

"You're all right, Matt," she told him, the tears still falling.

He thought so, but it was nice to have confirmation. "Sam?" he asked.

She leaned a little to the side and he saw Hannah standing behind her, his son in the saloon owner's arms.

"Your boy's fine, Marshal," Hannah assured him, smiling. "Just fine."

A hand touched his chin and turned his head straight. "That bullet grazed you pretty good across the temple, Matt," Doc said, voice more than a little shaky, "but you'll be okay."

The marshal crossed his right hand over and up to probe at the aching side of his head, drawing back fingers sticky with blood. "What hap – " he began, but with sudden clarity, he knew, he remembered. Almost desperately, he struggled to rise, frantic to know where Brennan was and what danger they all might still be in. "Help me – up," he ground out, extending his right arm to whoever might take it.

Doc laid a hand on his chest. "You just stay right there," he cautioned quietly, leaning in to explain. "Festus and Newly can take care of that kid. You just stay down."

But Dillon wouldn't let someone else take a bullet meant for him. If Coy Brennan was going to give him the chance to stand again and draw, he'd wipe the blood out of his eyes and do it. He shook his head, regretting that choice immediately as the world spun dizzily. When his vision cleared, he gritted he teeth and dragged his aching body to a half-sitting position without any assistance.

"Matt," Kitty urged, "please stay down and let Festus and Newly handle it."

This time, he grunted out a "no," hoping the kid would at least let him get to his feet before he fired again. "Move – Kitty," he managed past the sudden nausea. "Out of – the way."

"Matt, don't," she begged, trying to hold him down.

"Please," he said, not looking at her, shoving all of his energy into trying to stand. He had managed only to crawl to his knees when a firm hand pushed down on his shoulder.

From behind him, Festus' twang cut in, voice strangely unconcerned. "Ain't no need fer thet."

Doc looked up over Matt's head. "What are you talking about?"

"Ain't no need fer Newly an' me ta tek care of nothin'. Thet boy's arreddy bin took care of."

The physician stepped back so that the marshal could see. At least a dozen men stood like breastworks in the middle of the street. Matt's jaw dropped with the comprehension that these Dodge citizens had purposefully positioned themselves between Brennan and him to draw any subsequent fire that might come from the outlaw. When they saw him staring at them, they parted to reveal the scene beyond. A figure lay crumpled in the dirt, unmoving, a crowd of onlookers hovering over him. A tall, gaunt man bent with the nonchalance of an undertaker, a measuring tape stretching between his hands. Matt realized it was Percy Crump, almost always the first one on hand after a shoot-out.

Doc pushed himself to his feet. "What happened, Festus?"

Haggen shrugged. "As soon as Matthew went down, Floyd an' Burke here an' some of the rest of us weren't gonna let thet boy git away with what he done."

"So you killed him?" Doc surmised, his tone a conflict of accusation and approval.

But the deputy shook his head. "Weren't no need to, Doc."

Newly O'Brien stepped up beside Festus and explained, "The marshal's bullet drilled him right through the heart." He lifted a brow and nodded toward the downed gunman. "Brennan might have been _faster_, but he wasn't _better_."

Matt became aware of dozens of eyes on him, staring at him with relief and pride and awe, even those who knew him best. Quickly, he let his gaze drop. As it always had, hero-worship made him uncomfortable.

Nathan Burke stepped toward them. "I saw that fella earlier. He was fast. Real fast. But I knew he couldn't take you, Marshal."

Doc grunted.

"Congratulations, Marshal," Floyd offered.

The strange satisfaction couldn't quite overcome the regret that filled Matt's chest. "There's nothing to congratulate, Floyd," he said, voice heavy.

"'Cept bein' alive," Burke noted. Others in the crowd nodded their agreement.

Except being alive. And he was. Somehow he'd managed yet again to escape the fate he had anticipated since he was seventeen and had lied about his age to be Adam Kimbro's deputy. He wondered how long it would be before fate got tired of giving him chances.

Accepting Festus' and Newly's help, Matt climbed to his feet, despite Doc's protests, swaying slightly with the pounding of his head and the continuing throb of his shoulder. Vaguely aware that half the town followed close behind, he stumbled the twenty-five yards to the prone figure. Brennan lay, slim legs twisted beneath him, crimson blood soaking his shirt through the single bullet hole. Standing over the body of the boy, who was barely old enough to be shooting at rabbits, much less men, Matt pressed his lips together and lamented the waste, even as he gave thanks that he was still around.

Remembering the casual comment the kid had thrown at him just before he drew, Matt sighed deeply and muttered, "No, son, I'm sorry. It's _your_ funeral."

**XXXX**

"All right, this is gonna sting some," Doc warned a second too late.

Matt sucked in a quick breath at the touch of the alcohol swab against the raw gash Brennan's bullet had cut across his temple.

"Told ya."

"Yeah," the marshal agreed, voice tight. "You did."

"That's gonna need a few stitches, Matt. I can deaden it some, but – "

"That's all right," he grunted, as anxious as always to escape the physician's clutches. Chester had once sewn up his arm without any anesthesia. He figured with Doc's professional touch it couldn't be any worse than that.

But the first prick of the needle into his skin drove him to re-evaluate that decision. "Ow!"

"Well, you said – "

"I know. Just do it."

The doctor clucked his tongue against his teeth, but continued the torture. Matt decided that the process of tugging the ragged ends of the wound together was worse than the needle going through.

"I don't mind tellin' you, I thought that boy might be the one, Matt," Adams admitted quietly as he worked.

Matt shrugged. "Any of them could be the one, Doc."

"Hold still. Yeah, I guess you're right, but he was 'bout as fast as I've ever seen. Killed Ben McClagg just this morning."

The name startled the marshal enough to jerk him away from Doc's hands. "Ben McClagg was in town?"

"I said hold still," the physician scolded. "Yep. I figure he was here for the same reason as Brennan. To kill you."

"Now they're both dead."

"And you're not."

"No one's happier about that than me, Doc," Dillon joked.

But the physician didn't find it funny. "I think I know at least one person who is."

Guiltily, Matt cut his eyes toward Kitty, who stood silently in front of Doc's desk. Now that his thoughts came more clearly, he realized she hadn't spoken since they left the street and climbed the steep stairs to the physician's office. He also noticed that Sam wasn't with her, and he vaguely remembered hearing Hannah offer to take the baby until they were finished.

"He's going to be all right, Doc?" Kitty asked quietly, not meeting her husband's gaze.

Adams' tone seemed a little forced when he answered. "Oh, sure. Good as new."

Without further comment, she turned abruptly and was out the door before either man could say anything to her. As he and Doc stared after her, Matt felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. He had seen that look too many times before not to know what it meant, not to realize the world that he had just managed to claw back together was on the verge of bursting apart again.

Adams pulled back, ignoring the needle and suture that hung from the half-closed wound. "You're a fool, Matt Dillon."

There it was. He figured it was coming sometime or another. "You've told me that before, Doc," he reminded stiffly, swallowing the nausea her departure had churned up.

"I'm serious, Matt. You go through hell for eight months without her, almost get yourself killed after you find her. Discover you have a son. You go to all the trouble of marrying her and bringing her back here – just to let it start all over again?"

The passion on the older man's face startled the marshal into momentary silence.

"Do you have any idea what Kitty goes through when you're standing out there just inviting the world to take shots at you?"

"Doc – "

"Can't you see how it tears her up? You can say that's why you told her all those years you'd never marry, but it didn't matter to her. She was in just as much agony before you put that ring on her finger."

"Doc – "

Adams was good and worked up now. "Damn it, why do you think she left in the first place? My God, man, look at what you have. Look what you'd lose!"

Anger finally drew down Dillon's brow, creasing the injury and making him flinch, but he ignored it. In an uncharacteristic moment of ire, he snapped, "Yes! I know what Kitty goes through. Yes, I know it tears her up – it always tore her up. And yes, I know what I'd lose!" He caught his breath, the next words slipping out before he realized what he had said. "Why the hell do you think I resigned?"

Doc stared at him, and the marshal grimaced. He hadn't meant for his friend to find out about it that way.

"Doc, I'm sorry – "

But the physician didn't seem surprised. Quiet again, he admitted, "No need. Kitty told me about it. I guess I should say congratulations."

"Yeah." The rage vanished just as quickly as it had arrived.

"Look, I'm – I'm sorry about – well, not much you coulda done about Brennan, I guess."

"Not much," Matt sighed. "The War Department wants me to work through the end of the year. I'll turn in my badge then." _Turn in my badge._ He twisted those words over in his head, not quite able to grasp the finality of them.

"Then what?"

Then what, indeed? "Don't know. Ranching, maybe." His eyes stared ahead past the man who knew him better than anyone else – except Kitty.

"Ranching's not a bad choice," Adams decided. "You know a lot about horses."

"The Pinkerton Agency has been after me the past few years to come work for them," he revealed, wincing when Doc was the one who jerked this time. "Ow!"

"Pinkerton?" Adams echoed. "That's still law enforcement, isn't it?"

Matt pursed his lips. "Not the same. Detective work. Protecting important people."

"Hmph."

"You don't agree?"

"Matt, you've put yourself in danger for over twenty years protecting the people of Kansas and, well, all over. Don't you figure you've earned a chance to relax and not have folks waiting around every store front to kill ya'?"

The marshal looked at his old friend in surprise. Surely, Doc knew that wasn't possible. Resigned to something he'd have to deal with for the rest of his life, Matt said gently, "There are going to be folks after me forever, Doc. Don't you know that? Men I sent to prison five, ten, maybe twenty years ago. Men who haven't thought of anything else but paying me back first chance they get. My retiring might make Kitty feel better, but it won't change anything. I'm still a target. I always will be, and there's no changing that." His eyes closed against the old fear, the fear he had fought so long, the fear that had kept that ring off Kitty's finger for so long, the fear that was now reality. His voice broke on the next words. "And now Kitty and Sam will be targets, too."

Gritting his teeth, he saw the revelation hit Doc with the force of a gut punch, watched as Adams' eyes burned in understanding and horrible comprehension. Finally, swishing a hand over his mustache, the physician nodded and lifted his fingers to continue closing the wound, his silence saying more than any words.

Lips pressed as tight as he could get them, Matt managed to make it through the rest of the process without a groan – at least outwardly.

"There," Doc announced, leaning back and surveying his work. "Not bad. Not bad. I don't expect any fancy New Orleans doctor could have done any better." His voice was purposefully light, ignoring the dire prediction the marshal had made.

Matt appreciated the gesture. "I don't expect he could," he agreed graciously, fully believing it.

The final move was to place a protective bandage over the stitches. That done, Doc turned his attention to other injuries. "Let's get a look at that shoulder, now. Kitty told me that knife went pretty deep."

Not admitting to the ache that persisted, the marshal shook his head and slid off the table. "It's fine." But the move jarred him and brought a new grimace to his face.

"Yeah, I can see that," Doc said sarcastically. "You got somewhere to be?"

He glanced toward the door that Kitty had swung through, wondering if she would be at the hotel waiting for him, or if she had just realized what a terrible mistake she had made and was already waiting at the station for the next New Orleans-bound train.

Doc's eyes followed the marshal's gaze. "Oh, well, sure. I understand. Okay, I want to see you first thing in the morning about that shoulder."

"Yeah," Matt agreed, entirely too quickly. Not bothering to put his coat back on, he simply draped it over his right arm and headed for the door.

"Matt," Doc called before he walked out.

He turned, more than a little anxious to leave.

"Put that arm back in the sling."

Dillon pressed his lips tight but complied.

"Matt?" he heard again.

"What?" He winced. He hadn't meant to be quite so sharp. "What?" he repeated, more politely.

The doctor stepped toward him, eyes cutting up in clear warning. "You just barely missed a serious injury to your head, and you're still recovering from one to your shoulder. Take it easy."

"Sure," he agreed, turning.

But the voice stopped him once more. "I don't guess I need to ask you about that arm."

Matt frowned. "I told you, it's – "

"I meant your _right_ arm, Matt."

He stopped, not having even though much about the gun arm. It had worked. That's all he asked of it. "Oh."

"Coy Brennan's proof you're still just as fast."

"He was faster, Doc," Matt pointed out.

"Not by much. Plus, faster doesn't mean so much when you can't hit the target."

The marshal winced against the pain in his head. "He hit the target," he said ruefully.

Adams shook his head and pointed a finger at Dillon's chest. "_That_ was his target."

**XXXX**

Normally, the Dodge House was a quick walk from Doc's office, but it took Matt nearly ten minutes to make it. Scores of townsfolk stopped him to welcome him back, to congratulate him on his marriage and his son, to express their relief that he was okay, to convey their confidence in his abilities. By the time he finally escaped through the hotel doors, he was almost frantic to get to Kitty. He tried to assure himself that she still waited for him, but the few moments in Doc's office and the haunted look in her eyes as she knelt beside him on the street stole most of his forced confidence.

"Marshal!" Mister Dobie welcomed as he entered. "Are you all right?"

The marshal nodded his head gingerly, still aware of the throbbing temple. He hadn't let Doc give him any laudanum. "I'm fine," he assured the hotel owner, even though he figured he probably didn't look fine at all. A long-buried memory nudged at him, though, and he smiled genuinely. "Mister Dobie, I don't believe I ever thanked you for your kindness in providing me with a room here."

The older man shrugged away the appreciation casually, but Matt read the pleasure in his eyes. "It was no problem, Marshal. I'm glad I could help."

"Well, I know you were generous in the one you chose. Thank you. And I know Kitty will be comfortable here until we can get a place of our own." He turned to stride up the stairs.

Dobie's smile faded slightly. "Oh, Marshal, Miss Kitty's not up there."

Matt almost stumbled on the step, the blood draining from his face, a sudden sickness churning in his stomach. With effort, he forced his body around to face Dobie. "W – what?"

The hotel owner offered a perplexed smile and handed Matt a folded piece of paper. "She left a message for you."

A message?

Oh, God. A message.

He held the paper in trembling fingers for a long moment, heart in his throat, dreading what he would see. She'd had enough. She'd realized things weren't going to change. She'd made a mistake and was taking Sam and going back to New Orleans. She didn't want him to come after her again.

Almost choking on the possibilities that his mind cruelly conjured, he steeled himself and slid his fingers into the folds of the note, opening it. Kitty's firm, no-nonsense script greeted him as he read the few words she had written. Their impact weakened his knees and took his breath. He fought to remain upright.

"Oh, Kitty," he murmured, closing his eyes.

"Marshal?" Dobie's voice asked, concern sharpening the tone. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Dillon's eyes opened and met the hotel manager's, but he couldn't answer.

**TBC**


	13. None of My Business, But

Thanks, as always, for the great feedback and the interest in this story. A little more tease here, but the next chapter will have more action. Hope you enjoy!

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Thirteen: None of My Business, But – **

POV: Hannah

Spoilers: "Hostage!;" The Disciple"

Rating: PG (Teen)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

**XXXX**

The celebration at the Long Branch was in full swing, the citizens of Dodge rejoicing in the return of their marshal and his defeat – somehow both surprising and expected at the same time – of yet another foolish gunman's vain attempt to destroy him and his town. Piano music banged out over the roar of the crowd. Cigar smoke billowed into the air. Beer and whiskey flowed generously, adding to the coffers of the best saloon in Dodge. Usually, such scenes brought a smile to the face of the Long Branch's owner, but tonight she couldn't stop the irritated frown that wrinkled her brow.

Stepping from the back room, she contemplated the possibility of shushing the rowdy cowboys and townsfolk, but one look at the gleeful chaos told her that wasn't going to happen. Besides, it was her celebration, too – at least she had thought it would be. Easing the office door closed, she stepped up next to Floyd, who had barely taken a breath since the rush began.

"Good night tonight," he noted, shoving a glass under the tap to dispense another few gulps of beer for a boisterous patron.

Hannah nodded, letting her tentative smile meet the barkeeper's. "That it is." And it was, but her thoughts refused to stay on the profitable evening, as pleasant as that might be. Instead, her mind kept driving back to that marvelous and terrible scene on Front Street that had prompted the party.

Ironically, in all the months she had been in Dodge City, she had never witnessed an honest-to-goodness, quick-draw, to-the-death gunfight, at least not one involving Marshal Matt Dillon, most famous of all quick-draw lawmen. The spectacle that unfolded was one she knew would be forever etched into her memory. The awe of watching the towering lawman plant his large boots and shoulder the burden of an entire town, the torture of waiting for the draw, the terror of seeing him reel backwards with the impact of the gunman's bullet, the heart-bursting relief of realizing he had survived again, had vanquished the foe once more.

For months the townspeople had spun almost unbelievable stories for her about the legend of Matt Dillon, but none of those tales could hold a candle to the real thing right before her eyes.

Those few horrifying moments made it easier to understand the agony that had forced Kitty from Dodge, from the fear that gnawed at her continually, from the burden of knowing that any moment might bring death and devastation. Still, this time, as before, Dillon had survived. This time, as before, his challenger lay dead. This time, as before, all was right again in Dodge.

But all wasn't right, and Hannah knew it. She had learned too much about Matt Dillon and Kitty Russell, had seen too much, had witnessed too many deep emotions from both of them not to understand and fear the significance of that scene on the street. It was why Kitty had left in the first place. Her words still haunted Hannah's memory.

"_For twenty years I've watched him go after men – and a few women – and I've watched them come after him. Not one of them came who didn't intend to kill him."_

And now, she had been faced with it again almost as soon as they stepped off the train. Hannah had seen the same old fear in the younger woman's eyes as Dillon squared off against the gunman, had seen the consequences in the marshal's eyes as he looked up at his wife from the dust of Front Street. Their moment of idyllic welcome had shattered all too quickly. And Hannah was afraid for what that meant – for all of them.

Tuning out the chaos of the room, she reflected on those months after Kitty had gone the first time, on the marshal's silent but visible anguish. They had all watched him retreat behind that badge, emotions disappearing beneath a stoic, hardened mask. She had seen his true feelings only twice: first, when he entered the Long Branch and found out Kitty was gone, and second, when she confronted him at the jail and dared to accuse him of not being able to give up the law for love.

How could she forget the weary despair that ravaged his body as he had lain on that jail bunk, teetering on the edge of physical and emotional surrender? How could she forget the rage that exploded from him with the memory of what Jude Bonner had cost him and Kitty? How could she forget the tragic sparkle of that lonely ring as she emptied it onto the table? How could she forget the strength it took for him to drag himself back to his feet and risk his heart one more time?

And how on earth could he survive being left _twice_?

But that's what was about to happen. Even now, the former Long Branch owner waited upstairs in her old room, bags still packed.

**XXXX**

As Festus and Newly had helped the marshal up to Doc's office, Hannah assured Kitty she would take care of their child until she came back for him, figuring that would be a good, long time, since the new bride would certainly want to remain with her husband until Doc released him. But, to her surprise – and considerable concern – Kitty had entered the saloon only a little while later, eyes troubled, brow down, the weight of decision bowing her head.

"How's the marshal?" Hannah had asked, hoping Doc's initial prognosis remained true.

Kitty's eyes shifted, looking away. "He'll be all right," she said, voice low. "A little dizzy for a while, maybe."

"Well, good to hear. Good to hear." Hannah studied the other woman carefully, weighing whether or not to push. "Matt Dillon's quite a man, wouldn't you say?"

Blue eyes snapped for a moment, then lowered. "He is," she agreed, almost in a whisper. It didn't reassure the saloon keeper.

She wanted to tell Kitty just how much of a man he was, but she figured the redhead knew better than anyone else – and certainly in more _ways_ than anyone else. Still, she wished Kitty could realize just what the town had seen those months, the pain that he fought both in his bones and in his heart.

Instead, she observed simply, "You came back."

"He brought me back," Kitty clarified.

"I don't figure you would have come if you didn't want to."

Kitty didn't reply.

Figuring she really had nothing to lose, Hannah drew in a breath and said, "Look, this is none of my business, but I can tell you right now that man loves you deeper than any man I've ever seen. I know what happened this afternoon scared ya'. I know it was just what you've lived with for twenty years. I know you don't know if you can keep on livin' that way."

"Hannah – "

But she plowed on, digging as deep as she could before the bedrock broke her shovel. "I ain't never seen a man so torn up inside as Matt Dillon was all the time you were gone. And I ain't never seen a man so proud as when he stood with you and your boy there at the train station. And what about your boy? What kind of man will he become if he doesn't have the chance to know his pa? My goodness, who in the world could better teach him how to be a man than Matt Dillon?"

Kitty had straightened her shoulders, her eyes glaring at the older woman. "You were right."

"Right?"

"It is none of your business, just like before."

If that was the worst she could do, Hannah would risk it. "All the same – "

"All the same," Kitty repeated, then let her voice soften. "All the same, I know you mean well. You're not telling me anything I haven't already thought about."

"Then – "

"I'd like to ask for another favor," she said, smile forced. "I know you've done quite a few of them for me since – "

Despite their disagreement, Hannah didn't hesitate. "What do ya' need, honey?"

Gratitude softened the younger woman's features to match her voice. "Can you keep Sam a little while longer? I have – I have some things to take care of."

Hannah felt her heart sink. Even though she could understand Kitty's decision, she couldn't agree with it. In fact, if she had been fifteen years younger herself, Hannah would never have let him go. She would have latched onto Matt Dillon with all her might, bullets, bad guys, and badge be damned.

"Sure."

Nodding, Kitty added tentatively, "Would it be all right – that is, do you have a room here at the Long Branch I can use – just for tonight?"

The Long Branch? That was even worse. She knew that the marshal kept a room at the Dodge House and that he had taken their luggage over there earlier, before Brennan ripped apart the lives they had only recently woven back together. The fact that Kitty only needed one night was ominous, too. It hinted that the morning stage might have two additional passengers.

Sighing, Hannah nodded sadly. "I have _my_ room – your old room."

"Oh, no. I couldn't do that. I'll just – it's okay."

But Hannah realized she wanted to do it, wanted to help the woman some way, to ease at least a little of the turmoil she had stepped right back into. "No. I insist that you take it. After everything you've been through, the least I can do is help you be comfortable. It's your furniture, after all. Maybe it'll help."

"Really, you don't have to – "

"Didn't ya hear me insist?" Hannah smiled. "Insistin' means you don't have a choice. " Then she lowered her voice a bit. "Look, it's none of my business, like you said, but are you really sure you want to do this?"

Kitty nodded once, a curt, determined motion. "I'll need to get my bags – "

"I'll send Floyd."

"No, I'll go. I need to – I have to do something else there, too."

And she had disappeared through the doors, only to return in ten minutes, the gangly bellhop from the Dodge House in tow with three formidable pieces of luggage. Hannah had used the brief time to transfer a few necessities to a smaller room, her mind still working through ways to change Kitty's mind. Maybe staying in her old room, surrounded by memories of what certainly must have been very good times would make her think twice about leaving, would help her decide that she was making a horrible decision. Maybe Hannah would go after the marshal, bring him back and somehow lock them in the room together until they worked it out.

She chuckled at the ridiculous sight of her trying to _make_ Matt Dillon do anything. Still, she'd had some success before, hadn't she?

When Kitty returned, she took Sam back into her arms, placed a tender kiss on his cheek, and started to climb the same stairs she had no doubt climbed hundreds of times before.

"Kitty," she said on impulse, not completely sure what she would say next.

The other woman turned halfway up the steps, face expectant.

"Kitty, I – why don't you let me keep Sam a little longer? Take yourself a nice, hot bath, and relax. I'll bring him up in an hour or so."

"You don't have to – "

"Don't _have_ to, _want_ to. Figure you could use it."

A strange look cross Kitty's features, suspicion, perhaps, followed by acceptance. "Well, maybe that is a good idea," she decided finally, stepping back down far enough to hand the baby back to Hannah. "Thank you."

"Glad to." And she was.

The redhead started to turn back up the stairs, then paused. "Hannah, if – if – "

"What?"

"If Matt comes in – "

The saloon keeper nodded reluctantly. She knew what Kitty wanted, but she wasn't sure she could flat-out lie to the marshal, not after everything she'd seen him go through, not after the deep feelings he had admitted in her presence.

If Kitty left, she wondered what would happen to her, to the marshal. She wondered what would become of their child, the one she had suspected all along was what had really driven Kitty from Dodge. Without his father, what kind of man would Samuel Dillon become? Of course, maybe that's what Kitty feared all along. Maybe she would rather have Sam never know the man who helped create him than have him ripped away in violence when the boy would be most vulnerable to such a loss.

Instead of voicing any of those fears, however, she had taken the child and watched Kitty continue up the stairs, wondering if this would be the last time she did.

**XXXX**

A rowdy laugh rammed into her thoughts, jerking them back to the present. Hannah sighed and watched the gleeful crowd for a few minutes. She had taken hot water upstairs only a few minutes earlier, and hoped Kitty was soaking peacefully by now – soaking and _thinking_. Clucking her tongue, she shifted her gaze back toward the office, wondering how on earth the baby slept so soundly with that racket going on.

"He's still sleepin'?" Floyd asked, startling her, even amid the din.

"Still sleepin'," Hannah confirmed, managing something close to a smile.

"I guess that's what they mean by 'sleepin' like a baby'."

"Yep."

"Miss Kitty say how the marshal's doin'?"

"All right, I think. At least he will be in time." Physically, anyway.

Wiping out a glass, the barkeep narrowed his eyes and asked, "You think he will – "

But he had barely started his question when the swinging doors practically exploded open. Even over the noise, the customers heard the bang and turned as one to stare at the arresting presence that had suddenly appeared. Matt Dillon stood, shoulders filling the doorway, apparently oblivious to the fact that every eye in the place was focused on him. Even when the group erupted in cheers to greet him like the conquering hero, he didn't seem to notice the accolades. With only a second's hesitation, he pushed his way in and scanned the room, his gaze sweeping across it in one thorough motion perfected by years of practice.

"I reckon he will," Hannah muttered, affected just like everyone else by the energy that surrounded the imposing lawman. Taking a breath, she raised her voice over the crowd and greeted, "Evenin', Marshal," as if she knew nothing, as if all was well and normal.

She wondered briefly if he saw through her mask, then realized he wasn't even looking at her. Instead he threw a perfunctory nod in her general direction, but didn't remove his penetrating gaze from the milling crowd. As commanding as he was, he nevertheless looked a bit the worse for wear. A mop of wavy hair blossomed up over the bandage that wrapped around his head. He was coatless and hatless, his shirt still bearing the bloody stains that soaked his collar and splattered down the chest and sleeve. If they hadn't known Coy Brennan was laid out stiffening in Percy Crump's window, the townsfolk might have figured Dillon had come up short on that draw.

"Can I help you, Marshal?" she tried again, hoping he would ask, begging him to ask.

Finally, his gaze leveled on her, and she caught her breath at the intensity that snapped from those eyes, their normal sky blue darkened with purpose. "Where is she?"

There it was, almost exactly the same question he had asked her at this same bar months before. She had waited too long then, had sat on her suspicions until it was almost too late. Despite her nod to Kitty earlier, Hannah felt no guilt over her next actions, didn't even need to mull them over.

Jerking her chin up sharply, the saloon keeper said, "Upstairs. My room. It's the last door on – "

"I know which door," he interrupted, and she realized that, of course, he knew which door. She easily forgave him the uncharacteristic rudeness, and silently wished him luck.

Their eyes met again, and Hannah almost smiled at the hard determination that sharpened his gaze. It was the same determination she had seen that day weeks before when he strode out of his office on a mission to the Delta to retrieve his lover. Maybe this was the conclusion of that mission.

Breaking away, he crossed to the stairs, his long legs chewing up the distance in only a few strides. His eyes lit on the upper level and didn't deviate. Despite the arm he still rested in a sling, despite the bandaged head, despite the ubiquitous limp, he took the stairs two at a time, his heavy footfalls pounding out even over the noise of the crowd. A few onlookers watched him sprint up the steps, their smiles indicating they knew what propelled him with such haste.

Hannah fervently prayed they were right.

He gained the landing quickly, freeing his left arm so that he could shove through the curtain that separated the back apartments from the front hallway. Then, he was gone.

After they watched Dillon disappear, Floyd raised a brow in question. Hannah could only shrug, having no idea what was about to happen up there behind that curtain. Slipping back through the office door, she stood next to the make-shift crib she had created with a whiskey crate and blankets. The infant still slept peacefully, oblivious to his parents' trials.

She had told the marshal the child was a fine looking boy, and she hadn't just said that out of courtesy like some folks did no matter what the babies looked like. At two months old, Samuel Dillon was already a sturdy, handsome fellow with soft swirls of rust-colored hair and clear blue eyes. Hannah had heard that all babies were born with blue eyes, which changed in the first few months of life. She had no doubt, however, that Sam's eyes would remain blue, their depths a mirror of both mother's and father's.

She hoped he would have the chance to grow up with both parents, would develop his own character from the steel and compassion of both parents. If ever a child had the potential to be something very special, it was a child of Matt Dillon and Kitty Russell. Hannah hoped he had the chance.

"You just keep sleepin', now, Mister," she cooed to the baby. "Everything's gonna be all right."

It was none of her business, of course, but she hoped. Oh, how she hoped.

**TBC**


	14. Nice and Easy

This is for everyone who has been so wonderful to stick through all of the angst and all of the cliffhangers for the past thirteen chapters! A little teasing still – couldn't help it. But maybe I'm forgiven, at least a little! This is not the end. At least one more chapter to go. Thanks for reading!

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Fourteen: Nice and Easy**

POV: Kitty

Episodes Referenced: "Tap Day for Kitty;" "Hostage!;" "Kitty's Love Affair;"

Rating: Teen++

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

**XXXX**

Kitty Russell Dillon laid her head back against the enameled tub and closed her eyes as the warm water swirled gently around her, scented with bath salts she had brought back from New Orleans. She was making the right decision – she knew it. Regardless of the pain it caused, she knew she was doing the right thing. For herself, for her son – for Matt. It had been only a few hours since those horrible moments on the street – and yet it seemed like decades.

She had stood there, clutching Matt's son to her breast, desperately echoing Doc's uplifted prayer, wondering how many times she had seen him face off against some low-life outlaw in the past twenty years, wondering how many more times she could survive such sights. As dusk settled over the town she had watched his blood spill out onto the dust, felt the terror that after all those years, after everything she had endured, had lost, then found again, this was the end.

But it hadn't been the end. Somehow, once again, Matt Dillon had survived – survived to face another day, and to face another gunman. It was inevitable. It was his lot. And for any woman who risked a relationship with him, it was her lot, too.

She glanced around at the familiar walls of the dressing room and considered with a humorless grunt that, once again, she was waiting – as she had waited for 19 years before. Raising her hand to brush away wisps of hair that tickled her face, she saw the dim glow of the lamp flash mutely from the ring that circled her finger. _His_ ring – the one he had finally placed there, the one that signified his eternal love.

Sighing, she prayed for the strength to do what she had to do.

Hannah's nosing into the situation had irritated her, had hit closer to home than she cared to admit. She certainly didn't need anyone telling her what kind of man Matt Dillon was; she knew very well herself _exactly_ what kind of man he was. He was stubborn, and driven, and duty-bound, and _frustratingly_ responsible – and noble, and good, and kind, and tender. It was those things that she loved most – and hated most – about him. She shook her head. No, not hated. She could never hate Matt. Be furious with him, irritated, disappointed, but never hate him. The older woman meant well, Kitty knew that, but this was something she had to do on her own. She would set her own path, make her own decisions, and square up and take the consequences. Hadn't she always? Guilt pricked at her conscience, reprimanding her for her impatience with the new Long Branch owner. Hannah had been more than kind to her, and to Matt. In fact, from the little that Matt had confided to her about Hannah's confrontation with him at the jail, the older woman was instrumental in steering him back to New Orleans. So she could forgive well-intentioned meddling, especially since –

Breaking into her soft reverie, familiar footsteps sounded hard on the stairs, too few, too fast, and she realized he was practically running up them. That, alone, startled her. She wasn't sure when she had actually seen him run lately, especially with the almost-constant pain from his leg. Nevertheless, he was running; she was sure of it.

She had been expecting him, of course, and drew in a measured breath in the vain attempt to keep her heart from pounding right through her chest.

The footsteps stopped outside the door, but no knock came right away, as if he was contemplating whether or not to ask for entry. She counted the seconds in her head, tried to imagine what he was thinking, what he was doing. Finally, just when she feared he might leave, she heard his knuckles rap firmly on the wood.

"Kitty?" His tone was low, measured.

She opened her mouth to answer, but found she couldn't make a sound.

He knocked again, a little harder this time. "Kitty, it's me."

"Yeah," she managed, finally, loud enough to reach beyond the bedroom. "Door's unlocked."

She heard him enter. "Kitty?"

"In here."

The footsteps paused again, then moved toward the dressing room. With a squeak, the door cracked open, spilling light from the bedroom, silhouetting those broad shoulders in the door frame. Kitty didn't bother to rise from the tub, didn't move to cover herself. That would be silly after all the years they had been together.

After only a moment's further hesitation, he stepped inside, breath coming faster than usual. He had lost his coat somewhere, she noted, and was hatless, although that was probably because of the bandage. She winced at the sight of the bloody splotches that spread from the once-white collar across his shoulder and chest and down one sleeve. Darkness had settled over the town by now, and only one dim lamp glowed in the room, but its light was enough to reflect the intensity of those blue eyes that almost burned right through her.

"I can wait outside," he offered, but made no move to leave.

"You don't need to."

He nodded. "Fine."

The curt response took her by surprise. For the past twenty years, Kitty Russell had come to know Matt Dillon well, better than anyone else knew him – or would ever know him, she figured. In that time, he had never treated her with anything but tenderness and deference. Even when they fought, he remained the gentleman. Not that they hadn't had their spats, but Matt was nothing if not irritatingly even keeled, even then. Tonight, though, as he stood before her, there was something different about his stance, the set of his jaw, the flash of his eyes. Almost as if he were about to issue a command. But surely she read him wrong. Matt Dillon had never commanded her, had never _chosen_ to command her. Of course, she had never commanded him, either. Theirs was a mutual relationship, bonded by trust and true respect – and, of course, love.

But on second look, she was almost positive that's what it was. This man, her gentle lover, towered over her, left arm ignoring the sling so that both hands could brace on his hips, legs planted wide and solid, lips pressed hard together.

"Matt?" she asked tentatively, suddenly unsure.

He thrust out a hand, the note she had left with Dobie crumpled in it. "You said we need to talk. All right. Let's talk," he began, his tone refusing any defiance.

"Okay," she answered, trying not to frown. It _was_ her message, after all.

He sucked in a breath that caught in his throat, then ground out, "You're not leaving."

Mouth dropping and eyes narrowing, she felt a clash of astonishment and anger. That definitely sounded like a command, all right. She frowned at the tone, so uncharacteristic from his usual gentleness with her. Even after Will Stambridge, he had bowed to her desires, left the decision to her, had been willing to accept what she wanted. "What?" she snapped.

His jaw hardened, as if he were physically bracing himself for battle. "I said you're not leaving. Look, you've always been your own woman, right? Made your own decisions."

"Yes," she acknowledged warily, eyes still glaring.

"And you knew how it had to be with us."

She damn well did.

"I was always very clear with you about that. Even though you didn't like it, I figured you knew that was just the way it was."

The way it was. God, she hated that phrase.

Emotion thickened his voice. "I had to be careful in public not to show how much you meant to me, not to show how much – how much I loved you." He reached up to run a hand through his hair, pulling it back with a wince when the touch reminded him of the raw bullet graze. "You don't know how many times I walked into the Long Branch, tired, and sore, and mad as all get about at some no account rustler or thief or wife beater. And there you were, beautiful and fresh – and smiling at me, and offering me a beer with your words, and promising me more with your eyes."

Swallowing to push down the sudden lump in her throat, she whispered, "Matt – "

His gaze unfocused, looked past her, as if he was replaying those moments in his head. "And I wanted to go to you and kiss you and hold you right there in front of everyone and let them know you were mine. Let them know that for some reason you had chosen a big, gangly, clumsy public servant over all the rich gentlemen you could have had."

She wanted to stop him, to tell him that he was more gentleman than all of the shallow, moneyed Eastern dudes put together. Instead, she let him continue, seeing from his eyes that he needed to say it.

"But I couldn't," he continued, letting his gaze return to her face, "in case someone was watching or listening who wanted to get revenge, who wanted to hurt me. Because even if they put a bullet right through my heart, they couldn't hurt me more than they would if something happened to you."

Heart aching, she grabbed the side of the tub, wanting to face him, to stand with him.

"After Bonner – " His voice broke on the name, and his head dropped.

That drew her up and out instantly, reaching for the robe she had folded next to the tub, not bothering to tie the sash. Placing a hand on his arm, she urged, "No, Matt, don't. Bonner's over, in the past. He doesn't matter. He's _nothing_."

But he shook his head, struggling for control. "After – _him_ – I started thinking that maybe my bright idea hadn't worked so well. Maybe everybody knew about us anyway."

She almost smiled, knowing both of them had realized that years ago. They stood in silence for a long, long moment.

Finally, taking a deep breath and managing a crooked smile, he said, "So, it might have taken me twenty years to ask, but I did it without the buckshot. You gotta give me a little credit for that.

She couldn't suppress the grin at his reference, marveling that he remembered.

Not giving her any chance to respond, he continued, "But the fact is I asked, and you accepted, and we're married, and we have Sam – "

"Matt – "

"So," he repeated, his eyes not nearly as secure as his words, "you're not leaving."

She looked up at him, lips pursed. After a few beats, she raised a brow and asked, "Are you finished?"

He nodded, warily, as if suddenly he wished he weren't finished, as if suddenly he couldn't stand to hear her response.

Turning her back to him, she stared across the small room, bracing again for the pain she knew her decision would cause. "When you came to New Orleans for me, I didn't know what to do at first. I had imagined it for months, pretended I could send you away and just continue my life." She tried not to hear the quick breath he drew in, didn't mean for that to hurt him. "But then you came, and there you were on the riverboat, tall and handsome and heroic, as always."

"Kitty – "

"Hear me out?" she asked, turning back to him.

Teeth gritted, he nodded, shoving his hands into his front pockets.

"And I knew I had been fooling myself, thinking I could get you out of my system. I knew then I'd tell you about Sam, and I guess I knew deep down that if you asked, I'd come back with you. Then, you surprised me with the ring, and even more with the badge. I couldn't believe that after all these years it was finally happening. I guess I figured it could really be like you said. I guess I thought you could give up the badge and we could live a normal life."

The intensity of his expression faded into earnestness. "We can – "

She shook her head. "No. You're Matt Dillon. I've accepted now that we'll never have a normal life." He attempted to mask it, but the heartbreak that bled through tore at her, hurrying her to continue. "There will always be someone after you, Matt. You already knew that, but I guess I just wanted to pretend we could get away from it."

"Kitty, I can't change the past. I can't undo what's been done. But I made a promise to you – a vow. If you want, I won't wait until the end of the year. I'll quit tomorrow. Newly and Festus can do the job until a new marshal is appointed. I'll quit, and we'll move away from here. Colorado or Wyoming. Or back to New Orleans, if you want."

Oh, how she wanted to do it, wanted to take his offer and escape into the fantasy she had always imagined. But she knew better. It was only a fantasy, after all. It would always be only a fantasy.

"Matt," she reasoned, unable to look at him in her attempt not to lose her hard-fought calm in the face of his rare emotion. "You know it won't matter. You know that wherever we go, Matt Dillon will always draw a crowd. You'll always be a target. And I understand what you were trying to tell me all those years. A wife and child only make things worse."

Any pretense at stoicism collapsed. "No – "

She swallowed hard, willed herself to continue. "I've been thinking about things. It's why I left Doc's before – well, before I should have. After – after that boy shot you, I had to do some thinking about what was best for me and for Sam." She lifted her eyes. "And for you. That's why I – "

"I don't want you to leave," he announced abruptly, the hard line dropping from his tone, falling into a raw, open plea.

"What?"

His face darkened with regret, guilt. "I know what you're afraid of, and I know it could have happened easily this afternoon, but I don't want you to leave. I should have told you that two years ago – with Stambridge. Didn't figure I had the right, but I should have told you, anyway."

"Matt – "

"Maybe now I have the right. So I'm telling you, I don't want you to leave." Jaw clenched, he looked straight at her, his heart and soul plain in the depths of his eyes. "Please don't leave Kitty."

"Oh, Matt," she whispered, reaching up and letting her fingers skim across his cheek. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. I'm not leaving."

Slowly, his brow furrowed, and he cocked his head. "What?"

"I said I'm not leaving."

"You're not – "

She shook her head.

Instantly, the breath left him, his shoulders slumping, hands falling, solid stance faltering. He drew a shuddering breath, the mask of command gone, replaced by raw relief.

"Matt," she murmured, unable to give him the rest of her decision, wanting to hold off that pain a little longer, to pretend this was all there was – this moment.

Ignoring the water that plastered her robe to her body, she reached around his neck and pressed against him. Instantly, almost desperately, he wrapped his long arms around her, lifting her so that her feet dangled off the floor, clutching her hard to him as if he never planned to release her. Maybe he didn't. That would be all right with her.

"Matt," she breathed against his shoulder, "I never intended to leave you. That wasn't – " That wasn't what she'd had to tell him.

"I was afraid."

She cocked a dubious eyebrow. "Afraid? You've never been afraid of anything in your life," she challenged. Except maybe a preacher.

"I was afraid of losing you," he admitted.

Sliding to the floor, she placed her hands on her hips and peered up at him. "Listen to me, Matthew Dillon, I can't say it wasn't just horrible seeing you out on that street again. And I sure as hell thought I was going to be torn apart when that bullet hit you and I didn't know if you were dead or alive."

The groan echoed deep in his chest, and she hung on to him tighter.

"But I'm not leaving. I'm not Matt Dillon's _woman_ now. I'm Matt Dillon's _wife_ and mother of his son. And that's who I will be from now on. I don't have the option to leave anymore," she said softly, her fingers threading through the curls at the back of his neck. "I will _never_ leave again."

He caught his breath, and she watched him fight for control, struggle to keep the emotion from tearing away his layer of dignity. Finally, voice still tenuous, he whispered, "I love you, Kitty."

She reached up, arching onto her toes to let her lips meet his, putting all the love, all the desire, all the assurance she could into the kiss. Even though she hadn't intended for the touch to be anything more than loving and reassuring, it had been too long for them, and she found her dripping body pressed against him provocatively.

"Matt?" she murmured.

"Mmm?"

"I got you all wet."

"Yep."

"Maybe we need to get you out of those clothes." Yes, that was definitely what they needed to do.

"Kitty," he groaned into her hair. "I want to – oh, I _really_ want to – but can we – are you – "

Reluctantly extricating herself from his embrace, she stepped back enough she that he could see her from head to toe, robe hanging open, skin glistening from the remaining water, glowing from the heat of her bath and the closeness of her man.

The deep emotions of the past minutes gave way to overwhelming desire. She had been without his touch for months – suddenly, one more minute seemed too long to wait.

"Kitty," he groaned, his eyes snapping as he looked at her, and the months apart exploded into a conflagration of desire, and she could think of nothing she wanted more than for him to take her right there, to fill her emptiness, to quench her thirst.

_Nice and easy._ Doc's warning nudged into her thoughts, and she swallowed. Nice and easy wasn't going to be so easy.

Her hands ran all over his body, trying to be careful at the shoulder, but not really able to slow down. The few buttons he had secured slipped easily through the holes, and she quickly shoved the bloody shirt down his arms, tugging the sling over his head along with it. When she had his beautiful, broad chest bared completely, she ran her hands over it and down his abdomen, swirling through the light hair. Her lips followed, trailing over his skin until he trembled.

She loved making this giant of a man tremble. She loved knowing she was the only one who could.

"I think you need a bath, yourself, mister."

"You already got me half wet," he noted wryly.

"I want you _all_ wet," she purred.

Grunting, he teased, "I'll need help. My shoulder, you know."

She pouted like a little girl. "I know. Poor baby."

Her slender fingers tickled their way across his stomach, then eased down between them, pushing against the hard ridge that throbbed insistently against his trousers. "Oh my. Ya' miss me, Cowboy?"

He gasped, throwing his head back, and she couldn't stop the shiver of excitement that shook her body at the sight of her man so overwhelmed by her touch.

"God, Kitty," he croaked, "don't you know how much I missed you? Can't you feel how much I missed you? I ache for you. I've ached for you since – "

"Me, too, Matt," she whispered. "I don't want to wait. Don't make me wait, Matt."

"Not a problem," he ground out, teeth clenched hard.

Hastily, she helped him pull off his boots and discard the remaining clothing before he climbed into the tub, the water almost tepid now. He didn't seem to notice. They would heat it back up soon, anyway. Leaning over the side, she rubbed the dried blood from his jaw and neck, down his chest and shoulder, circling gently, leaning in to place soft kisses over the clean skin. With the bandage around his head, he looked like a wounded soldier waiting for the ministrations of his nurse. Now _that_ could be a fun little scenario one day. Tonight, unfortunately, they didn't have the patience for role-playing. As her hands moved lower, cleaning other parts of his body, she realized things were close to being out of control.

"Kitty, come in here with me," he urged hoarsely, tugging at her arm.

She didn't need to be told twice. Lowering herself into the water, she straddled his waist, taking his face in her hands. Trembling, he raised his mouth to hers, and she moaned in relief and pleasure as their lips met, softly at first, then harder, hotter. She had waited so long for this moment and now she almost couldn't grasp that it was here. Her arms clung to his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest. His tongue pushed into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her again.

When he slid his hands up her body to let her full breasts rest in his palms, she groaned again, the familiar sensation of stimulation triggering her natural responses. Before she realized it, she felt the warm trails of milk trickle down her body to splash gently on his chest and dissolve in the water. Eyes widening, he stared in awe and jerked his hands away.

"Kitty, I – I didn't realize – I'm sorry – "

But she guided his long fingers back. "It's okay, "she assured him.

"Do you need – should I get Sam – " His head turned to the side, looking for the child. "Where _is_ Sam?"

"Hannah has him. Don't worry. And I don't need to get him."

"But – "

"It's okay. A natural reaction." Then she stopped, realizing suddenly that he might be uneasy with it, might find it unpleasant – or even disgusting. "Unless you mind – "

But his eyes were filled not with revulsion or disgust, only with love and warmth. "Kitty, how could I mind anything about your body, especially something that's for our child?"

_Our child._ The lump in her throat grew, the tears in her eyes burned.

"Oh, Matt," she whispered.

"Kitty," he asked, a little timidly, looking at her in mild amazement, "may I – "

Understanding, she nodded, then gasped as he leaned forward and took a nipple into his mouth, suckling her for a brief moment before he drew her down onto him.

"Sweet," he murmured.

Sliding her hands across his wide, hard chest, she arched her back as his lips found her other breast and caressed it in the same way. His groan told her that neither of them would last very long. Too many lonely nights lay between them. A surge of desire deep inside told her that she wouldn't be able to stop her body from taking what it yearned for.

And it yearned for Matt.

"Matt," she breathed. "I can't wait. Please – "

"Are you – sure?" he managed, voice so strained it was almost cracking. "We can stop, if – "

But she knew they couldn't stop. Not any more. "No, I can't stop."

"Thank God," he groaned, lifting her up slightly so that their hips were aligned.

"Wait – "

"_Wait?_ Kitty, I don't think I can – "

"The bed. I want to be in our old bed."

"Uh," he groaned, his voice straining, and she would have laughed if she hadn't been in almost as much discomfort. "Uh – yeah – okay."

With more than a little difficulty, they extricated themselves from the tub, the cool air rushing chill bumps across their skin. Not bothering to dry off, Matt swept her into his arms and strode into the bedroom.

"You shouldn't be lifting me. Your shoulder – " And back, and leg –

"Doesn't ache nearly as much as other parts of me," he told her.

Still, knowing his knife wound continued to bother him, she coaxed him onto the bed so that she could straddle him. He was ready for her – more than ready. Too aroused to wait herself, she lowered her hips, slowly and tentatively at first, unable to suppress the grimace at the slight pain his generous thickness caused.

"I'm sorry," he began, and tried to pull back, but she shook her head.

"No. It's wonderful. Just give me – a minute."

"I'll give you more than a minute," he breathed, pulling out anyway and turning her so that his broad shoulders pressed open her thighs. His touch was light, gentle, and his tongue caressed her with care until she writhed beneath him, soaring on the pleasure he brought, her body opening and inviting.

As incredible as it felt, she wanted them to reach their peaks together, so she somehow gathered enough strength to push him off, then straddled his hips again and sank back onto his pulsing erection, moving with confidence when there was no longer any sign of pain or discomfort. As he stretched her again, she was overcome with an urgency that neither of them could quell.

"Kitty!" he gasped through gritted teeth as she pushed down, pulled back, then sank in a little deeper the next time.

Oh, he felt so good. No man had ever felt as good as Matt Dillon felt to her. He was shaking with the effort to let her set the pace, not to thrust up hard and bury himself. He started to pull back, and she groaned and locked her legs around him, desperate not to lose the extraordinary feel of him inside her again.

But he shook his head and smiled tightly. "Kitty, I can't – I'm not going to last if – you feel so good, too good – "

Understanding, she let him turn them so that she lay beneath him and he could set the pace of his entry. Bracing his arms on either side of her, he lowered his hips until he probed her center again. With infuriating care, he eased in, just the tip, then a few more inches. As soon as she tried to squeeze around him, he would withdraw almost all the way until she was shaking with need.

"Matt," she groaned, grabbing vainly at the flexing muscles of his back and hips.

"Something wrong?" he asked, eyes full of innocence.

Managing to steady her breathing, she ground out, "You – are – bad, Matthew – Dillon."

"You always told me I was _good_."

But she couldn't play any longer. "Matt, I need – I need – "

Now the voice was softer, coaxing, urging. "What do you need, Kitty? Tell me. Tell me what you need."

Her head fell back and her chest arched. "You. I need all of you. Please."

He breathed her name and pushed forward with his hips, his heat burning to her core, filling her again, completing her again. She squeezed around him hard, smiling in satisfaction at his agonized groan. She opened to him, and he pushed in a little farther, his jaw hard, his eyes closed. She could tell he was working hard not to let the sensations overwhelm him. He wasn't the only one.

Finally, when she realized her body couldn't take any more, she grabbed at his hips and pulled. "Now," she gasped. "Now!"

At her demand, he allowed himself to sink deep inside her, grunting in relief and agony. His attempt to go slow vanished as soon as her heels dug into his back, and her hands pulled his head down so that her tongue thrust into his mouth in the same rhythm as he thrust into her.

_Nice and easy_, she reminded herself, even as she found her body arching into his faster and faster. He felt so good that she couldn't hang on to even the semblance of control. Their hips met, hard and furious, pushing against each other, burning and demanding. His strokes were deep and powerful, and she moaned at the almost unbearable pain and pleasure. She tore her mouth from his, her breath coming in pants now, and cried out.

_Nice and easy_, Doc had said. Right.

Matt faltered, pulled back, and she looked up. Sweat trailed down his jaw, his wavy hair, wild and damp, fell into his eyes, clouded now with desire and worry. He was absolutely beautiful.

"Kitty?" he asked, voice rough.

She shook her head, gasping. "No! I'm – fine. Please don't stop. Please – I _can't_ stop."

"Are you sure – "

Desperately, she bowed up to pull him back inside, clutching at him, her fingernails raking wildly down his strong back and over his hips, drawing blood, her pelvis arching up over and over. He must have been too far gone to feel any pain, because he gave in and thrust into her, his body surging and throbbing.

She almost couldn't believe it. This was Matt, her Matt, here with her again – inside her again. Love and passion and ecstasy throbbed between them. Deep inside, she felt the exquisite sensation take hold, building and building until she could no longer hang on. It took only a few more thrusts for her body to convulse in violent spasms that sucked him in and squeezed around him like a vise.

Nice and easy flew right out the window.

"Matt!" she cried out, bucking against him, clawing at his shoulders. "Oh, yes!"

He grunted as she writhed beneath him, driving as deep inside her as she could take him, swelling and pulsing until she felt the climax rip through his body and join hers, flooding her with heat and bliss and love. Over and over, he emptied inside her, and with each powerful surge the months of despair and fear and loneliness poured out, cleansing their souls, making them whole again. She moaned as her own body continued to seize around him while he thrust in and out even after they had both spent themselves completely. Gradually, his movement slowed to a gentle rock, the easy motion soothing after the furious pounding. Almost like a chant, he murmured tender words of endearment in her ear, of her beauty, of his love.

With a gasp, he collapsed, pinning her to the bed, but she didn't protest. It was heaven to lie beneath him again, to feel the pounding of his heart, to feel the heat of his skin. There was a time she had thought she had only the memories of such pleasure. Now, the tears burned her eyes with the feeling. After a few minutes though, needing to breathe, she reluctantly pushed against him. Groaning, he managed to brace on his elbows and ease his hips away from hers. She felt a sharp loss, a sense of emptiness as he withdrew, allowing the warmth of their releases to spread over her, but she snuggled into his broad chest almost immediately, the smells of perfume, leather, soap, sweat, and passion swirling around them.

It was at least another ten minutes before either of them could conjure the energy to speak. Matt managed first, placing his lips against her hair and breathing, "My God, Kitty, I missed you so much."

"You're not the only one, Cowboy," she told him, letting her fingers play in the dusting of hair on his chest. Her body still shuddered with after-shocks as she drifted into a deep, satisfied sleep.

**XXXX**

Kitty opened her eyes slowly to the dim light of her room – her old room, anyway – at the Long Branch. The lamp still glowed softly, painting gentle shadows over the bed. Soft snores soothed her, sounds she hadn't heard in her bed for almost a year. Turning her head, she couldn't help but smile at the huge man who lay beside her, his arms curled around her, her head resting against his chest. It had been so long, so many lonely months without this. How had she ever survived? She blinked a couple of times and wondered what had awakened her. The noises from downstairs were just as boisterous, telling her it must not be too late. Maybe some raucous cowboys had disturbed her sleep. Then she heard the knock again, and wondered how many times someone had been trying subtly to get her attention.

Placing a soft kiss on his shoulder, she slid carefully from the warmth of Matt's embrace, slipped on her robe and tip-toed to the door. "Who is it?" she whispered.

"Hannah."

Hannah? Yes, of course. It was her room, after all. With a start, Kitty remembered the most probable reason Hannah would be knocking.

Sam. Oh, dear. The poor child must be starving.

Taking a breath, she did her best to maintain some miniscule appearance of calm before opening the door. Beyond the crack of hall light, Hannah's smile faltered a bit as she held a whimpering baby out toward his mother.

"Kitty, I'm – I'm awful sorry to disturb you." The saloon owner's face reflected true regret. "He was frettin' and downright disappointed that I didn't have anything to offer him."

Kitty reached to hold her child, smiling when he grunted and rooted for the nourishment he desired the instant he was in her arms.

"I rocked him, jiggled him," Hannah explained. "I even tried to sing to him, but I'm not too sure that didn't hurt more'n it helped."

"Thank you, Hannah," Kitty told her, anxious for a little privacy so she could nurse.

But Hannah didn't take the hint right off. Instead, the older woman's gaze took in Kitty's appearance, and frowned. "I hope everything's all right – "

"It's fine," Kitty assured her.

"Because if – " But she broke off as her gaze shifted to look deeper into the room. The frown burst into a wide smile. "Well, I'd say everything is fine. I'd say it's mighty fine. Mighty fine, all right."

Kitty glanced back, suddenly worried that her very masculine husband was not sufficiently covered by the quilt. It was close. His upper body lay completely bare, giving both women a generous view of his wide chest and long-muscled arms. One leg thrust out from under the covers, the strong thighs still well defined even relaxed.

"Yes'm," Hannah repeated, gleefully. "Mighty fine."

Not particularly liking the close perusal the other woman was giving her husband, Kitty stepped into her line of sight. Knowing there could not have been any misunderstanding about what she and Matt had done, she issued her own repentance. "I'm so sorry about – well, I sort of – forgot – this was your room. We shouldn't have – "

"Honey," Hannah assured her, "that's the most fun this place has had since you left. I'm just – well, I can't tell ya' how good it is to see – well, you know."

Kitty smiled, truly grateful. "I know. We'll get back to the Dodge House later – "

"You'll do no such thing," Hannah scolded. "You'll feed that baby and put him down and get right back in that bed with that fine looking husband of yours." Leaning in, she whispered, "If ya' need me ta' take the baby again in the morning, while ya – well – just holler. I figure you two ain't gonna get completely reacquainted in just one night."

Cheeks flaming now, Kitty couldn't help smiling. "Thank you," she said sincerely.

"Don't mention it. Does my heart good to – well, it does my heart good." With a wink, she backed out of the room, floating a "Goodnight, Marshal," over her shoulder as she went.

Easing the door closed, Kitty turned back to the bed, surprised to see Matt stirring, one eye peaking out at her. "Kitty?"

"Hey, Cowboy," she whispered. "Go back to sleep."

"Was that – "

"Hannah. She brought Sam back." She laughed. "She didn't have what I have to offer him."

"Well, I'll sure agree with you on that," he smirked.

She threw a mock glare his way and eased onto the mattress next to him, exposing one breast for the eager infant, who latched instantly. Briefly, she considered telling him the rest – what she had intended to tell him when she left the note with Mr. Dobie. But now wasn't the time, either. Now, she just wanted to bask in the moment of warmth with her husband and child, not bring up the pain.

She shrugged. "I had to get her out of here before she tried to seduce you."

Horror spread across his face and he sat suddenly, wincing slightly and touching his head. "What?"

"She sure was eyeing you with more than just good will," she noted as casually as possible.

"Kitty!" he declared, looking rather sick. "By golly, you can't mean that Hannah – I mean she's as good as gold, but – "

"But I'm the only woman for you, is that what you meant to say, Cowboy?"

He smiled then, more than a little relief in his eyes. "Absolutely."

The baby sucked greedily – grunting in satisfaction with every swallow.

"He needs a little work on his manners," Matt observed wryly, turning onto his side and propping his head in his right hand.

"Reminds me a little of Chester."

Her husband laughed at the mention of their old friend. "Yeah, he sure could put away some grub."

"Is Samuel hungry?" Kitty cooed to the baby. "Is mama's big boy hungry?"

Matt grunted. "Say, uh, I think mama's other big boy is hungry, too."

"It's the middle of the night, Matt. Delmonico's isn't open – "

But one look at his eyes told her he wasn't interested in any kind of nourishment Delmonico's could give. "Oh," she breathed, heart pumping with the unspoken invitation.

"But I'll wait my turn," he assured her, his face softening as he watched his wife and son in the closest mother child bonding nature created, staring, mesmerized as the baby latched on hungrily, the little fists clenching and unclenching in satisfaction. Losing all teasing, he breathed, "My God, Kitty. He's beautiful."

Her eyes lifted to his, filling with tears at the sheer joy of having the two men she loved the most with her. "He is, isn't he?"

Matt watched them in silence, his expression awed.

Even as her body reveled in the unique sensation of giving life to a child, it also yearned to feel again the touch of the father of that child. Doc's advice had been forgotten in the throes of passion earlier, but this time, maybe, she could heed his caution.

_Nice and easy. _

When she put Sam down, she'd show Matt how nice and easy she could be.

Yep. They'd be sure to go nice and easy.

She let her gaze linger appreciatively on her husband's brilliant blue eyes and wild, thick hair. She lowered it to follow the hard planes of his chest and stomach. She drifted lower over the loosely covered hips and groin.

_Nice and easy,_ she reminded herself.

He shifted, unaware that the move left him completely bare to her view, every impressive inch of his body open to her – and only her.

_Nice and easy,_ she tried to think.

_Nice and easy._

Then, he looked up at her and smiled, that beautiful, toothy, genuine, crooked Matt Dillon smile, and her heart leaped beneath her ribs, and her loins burned in anticipation.

_Nice and easy?_ Nope.

Doc would just have to get over it.

**TBC**


	15. Something That should Be Said

Thanks, as usual, for the great feedback everyone has given me on this story. My life has been quite busy recently, and I've had little time to write (for pleasure or for business), but several of you have prodded me into getting back to _HH_ – at least for a little while. There is one more chapter to go. I hope you'll stick around for it – and I hope you like this one!

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Fifteen: Something That Should Be Said**

POV: Matt

Spoilers: "Kimbro;" "Disciple"

Rating: PG-13 (Teen)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

**XXXX**

"Well, that gash across your head doesn't look quite as bad today," Doc said, replacing the cumbersome wrap with a smaller bandage. "Keep it dry and covered for another few days, at least. Now, let's get a look at that shoulder."

Adams turned toward the desk in his office, and Matt heard the gentle clink of instruments as he stripped off his shirt and perched cooperatively on the examination table. Might as well give Doc the satisfaction of looking him over. He wouldn't let him rest until he did, anyway. As many times as the physician had patched the marshal back up, he sort of figured he had partial ownership of his body. Matt couldn't really dispute that.

When he glanced up, he caught Doc studying him critically.

Sighing, he asked, "What is it?"

But the answer surprised him. Adams didn't berate him for adding yet another scar. He didn't fuss at the obvious loss of weight. And he didn't question how much rest he had gotten the night before. Instead, he clicked his teeth and shook his head.

"Matt, for a man who's been shot up more times than any of us can count, you're in pretty good shape."

"Well, thanks, Doc," he answered carefully, wary of a following comment that contradicted the first one.

"No, I mean it. You're fit. Muscles are lean and hard. If I were to be checking you out for the first time, I wouldn't guess you're coming up on fifty right fast."

"Forty-eight," Matt corrected gamely, even though the age didn't really bother him. He figured it was a miracle he had gotten that far.

"Well, you look ten years younger than the last time I saw you," he said, voice suddenly serious.

Matt lowered his gaze, not sure how to react. He knew what Doc was talking about, knew what toll losing Kitty had taken on his body. There were no words at all to express how he felt about finding her again – and about Sam. So he just swallowed and nodded, clenching his jaw to keep his emotions tight.

After a moment, Doc tugged on his ear and cleared his throat. "All right, let's check out this New Orleans fancy pants doctor's work." Adams leaned over to inspect the healing wound, and grunted his reluctant approval. "Not bad. Not bad. Of course, it's not like he was sewing up somebody for the first time. That shoulder looks like the railroad tracks at Grand Central Station in New York City."

"Thanks."

Doc clicked his teeth once, then lifted Matt's arm, gently manipulating the socket. The marshal couldn't quite avoid the quick grunt that escaped him with the flash of discomfort from the injury. It had still been sore yesterday, and after his and Kitty's rather energetic encounters last night –

"Hurts?"

Matt tried to shrug it off. "Not too bad."

"Well, it's not completely healed yet, ya' know. You going over to the jail after this?" he asked, his tone making it plain he didn't approve.

"For a little while," Matt admitted, his own voice firm. "Things pile up over a month, ya' know." He didn't mention that Newly had done a better than fair job keeping the paperwork up, and he really didn't plan to stay very long – especially with a certain beautiful redhead waiting impatiently for him back at the Long Branch.

"Hmph. Well, you keep takin' it easy. Maybe see if you can stay away from people tryin' to shoot ya' for a while."

"I'll do my best," Matt answered wryly.

"I'm not holdin' my – " The physician was just about to tug off his spectacles, when something else apparently caught his eye. Frowning, he leaned over Matt's shoulder and let his gaze move down the broad back.

"What's wrong?" the marshal asked, confused.

"What on earth did you get into, Matt?"

He still didn't understand. "What?"

"Looks like you had a fight with a wildcat – or maybe you wallowed around in a briar patch."

Matt started to protest that he had no idea what the doctor was talking about – until he suddenly realized. Oh boy. A deep flush raced over his face and down his chest, as he understood what Doc was seeing. Matt coughed and cleared his throat, reaching for his shirt. "Don't worry about that, Doc. It's fine."

The doctor pushed his arm back. "No, looks like ya' need a little salve, maybe. Could get infected."

Dillon leaned away from his touch, almost frantic to escape before Doc figured out what he was looking at. "Really, Doc, I'm fine. You finished?"

"Matt, what on earth's wrong with you?"

"Absolutely nothing. Can I go now?"

"Listen, some of those are kinda deep. I'm tryin' to figure out how – "

The big man slid off the table over the physician's protests. "I didn't wallow in a briar patch. And I didn't tangle with a wildcat – well, not exactly."

"Well, for Pete's sake, I figured that much. I just wondered what on earth you'd done to get those scratches all the way from your shoulders to your – well, some of 'em go kinda low."

"Just give me the salve and I'll put it on myself."

"I'll give it to ya', but it'd probably be easier if you let Kitty – "

Matt felt his face burn and started to turn away, but Doc had seen his reaction already.

The doctor paused, eyebrows soaring almost to his hairline. He looked up at Matt, a terrible smile playing at his lips. "Wouldn't be that Kitty – " He ran a hand over his mouth and mumbled, "Maybe you _did_ tangle with a wildcat, after all."

Hastily, Matt shoved his arms into his shirt and slapped his hat on his head. "That's none of your business, Doc."

The physician's brow drew down. "By golly, I told her to take it nice and easy."

"What?"

"Yesterday, she was – well, she came in to make sure she was healed enough to – "

The flush that had begun to fade now rushed back even deeper. Kitty had been talking with Doc about – about _that?_ He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, missing more than one hole as he went. "I'll see ya' later."

"Nice and easy," Adams grumbled, but as the marshal reached for the door knob, the older man called after him. "If you let those scratches go, and they get infected, you won't be able to lie on your back for a week or so. Then – "

Matt felt logic and pride battle within him. If he hung onto his pride and refused the salve, it might mean that he and Kitty couldn't –

Doggone it. Logic won out – logic and the memory of their previous evening's activities. Sighing, he extended his hand, open palmed, toward the doctor.

"What?" Doc asked, and Matt pressed his lips together at the physician's obtuseness.

"The _salve_?" he answered, his tone long-suffering.

"Oh – sure."

He tried to ignore Adams' chuckle while the older man shuffled through his cabinet in search of the medicine. Finding the right one, he handed Matt the jar.

Just before the marshal stepped outside, not even bothering to finish buttoning his shirt, Doc ran a hand over his mustache, unable to suppress the grin that popped to his mouth. "Guess this explains why it was almost lunchtime before you got over here to me. Did Kitty mention anything at _all_ about takin' things nice and easy?"

Dillon winced, dropping his head, but figured Doc saw his smile. "It – uh – it never came up, Doc," he admitted, then gave in to the little mischievous urge that prodded him and let the smile turn into an outright grin. "Not after other things did, anyway."

He couldn't help but laugh at the astonishment on his old friend's face. It was rare that Matt Dillon uttered anything even the least bit suggestive – at least to anyone other than Kitty. That made this moment all the more effective.

Still chuckling, he dropped down the stairs, not even noticing the twinge in his knee or the ache in his back.

**XXXX**

The razor scraped down his jaw with steady, confident motions, its path the same as it had been for thirty years' worth of shaving. Bending, as usual, so he could see into the mirror, Matt lifted his chin to reach the stubble that scratched his neck, then swished the sharp instrument in the waiting basin. As he looked back up, he caught her image in the glass, and his heart pumped a little harder just from her beauty.

"You just gonna just sit there?" he asked, knowing very well that was exactly what she was going to do – and more than happy to let her do it. The very simple task of shaving while she watched filled the emptiness that had gnawed at his gut for so many months, the scene a symbol of Kitty's presence and her love – and his deep need for her.

She smiled lazily at him, her elbows resting on her knees as she perched on the end of the bed behind him. "Um hmm."

"Okay."

"What did Doc say about your head?" she asked casually, but he heard the concern behind the tone.

They hadn't taken the time to talk about his visit to Doc when he returned from the jail earlier. They had been occupied with other things – deeply occupied.

"The usual," he answered lightly. "That it's hard."

"Funny."

"That's what _I _said."

"Matt – "

"He said it looks good." Catching her dubious glance in the mirror, he added, "Really."

"Really?"

"Yes. And my shoulder's coming along fine, too, since you're going to ask that next."

Her smile revealed his accurate prediction. "I was just going to tell you to hurry up. The party's about to start."

They weren't sure if it was Hannah's doing, or just a mutual idea among the whole town, but all of Dodge was headed to the Long Branch that night for the biggest celebration the town had ever seen. It still baffled the marshal a little that all the hoopla was for Kitty and him – and Sam, he guessed. Nevertheless, he wouldn't disappoint them by not showing up – as much as he'd rather just have a private little party with his wife.

He lifted the blade and started on the other side. "You gonna go to like that?"

Eyebrows rising, she glanced down at the rather skimpy undergarments she wore. "What's wrong with this?"

Smirking, he held the blade away from his jaw. "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. In fact, I, uh, I like it a lot."

"I _know _you do," she assured him, voice husky.

_Party,_ he reminded himself ruefully. But at that very moment it would have taken very little encouragement from her for him to disregard any public celebration – at least for another half hour or so.

"It's just that I figure every man in Dodge would like it a lot, too."

"Yeah?"

The frown pulled down his brow before he could stop it. "Yeah. And I'd hate ta' have ta' shoot 'em all down for ogling my wife." He was kidding, of course. Mostly.

"I guess that'd be a shame," Kitty agreed, cocking her head. "Sure would narrow down the selection pool for all the other girls." Her lips pursed. "And they already look at you _way_ too much for my likin'."

That drew a grin to his mouth. "That so?"

A true scowl darkened her face. "Hey, now. Don't you go gettin' all swelled up."

He chuckled at her involuntary touch of jealousy and turned. "Honey, when I'm around you, I can't help but get all swelled up."

The scowl lightened. "Well, as long as it's just around me – "

"You're the only one, Kathleen Dillon," he said, making sure enough seriousness colored his voice for her to know how much he meant it.

Her eyes smiled at him. "All right, then, Cowboy."

After a beat, he turned back to finish shaving, knowing that if they were late, he'd never hear the end of it from Doc.

"I got a scolding from Doc, by the way," he told her, still flushing slightly with the memory.

"About the – the gunfight?"

He heard the hesitancy and winced at the pain that lingered from the fear of the previous evening. "No."

Her reflection frowned. "No? What about then?"

"I suppose it was really _you_ he was scolding."

"Me? I didn't do – "

"He got a look at my back and wondered if I'd been wrestling a wildcat."

Her reflection flushed deep red. "Oh. Oh, Matt, I'm sorry." She slid off the end of the bed and stepped up behind him, her hands running gingerly over the red marks her passion had left. "I didn't realize I'd – well – " Her voice dropped from remorseful to sultry. "You made me lose control, Cowboy. I can't be held responsible for my actions."

Dropping the razor onto the marble top, he turned so that her face was eye-level with his bare chest. "That's too bad," he told her.

"How come?" she asked, letting her fingers run through the light hair that trailed down his abdomen.

The sensation shot straight to his groin, and he slid his arms around her, lifting and depositing her back on the bed, then stepping in between her thighs. "Because I was hoping you were completely responsible for your actions. Matter of fact, I was hoping you'd repeat those actions later tonight."

"Yeah?"

Bending, he nuzzled her neck, letting his hands ease up to caress her breasts. Abruptly, he remembered the results the last time he had done that, though, and pulled them back. The amazing experience of her milk letting down was something he'd never forget, and something he certainly wouldn't mind doing again, but this wasn't the time or the place. Smiling to balance any concerns she might have had, he turned back to the dresser to finish shaving.

Besides, they were expected downstairs any minute. Plus, it had been a while since Hannah came to get Sam. Matt wasn't quite an expert yet on babies and their feeding schedules, but he knew enough by now to realize it had been a couple of hours since Kitty last nursed – and Sam seemed to have just as big an appetite as his father. Either way, interruption seemed eminent.

She smirked, wiping away the shaving lotion he had left on her neck. "I guess he figured out we didn't take it nice and easy."

"Yeah. I think he did."

"He scold you for that?"

"I think it's _you_ he's gonna give the talkin' to."

She sighed, but didn't look too remorseful.

"He gave me some salve to put on my back."

"It's that bad?" she asked, her eyes narrowing in guilty concern.

Toweling his face dry, he turned to her. "He said if the scratches get infected, I won't be able to lie on my back and – "

"Oh dear." She clucked her teeth. "That would certainly mess up my plans for tonight – "

He felt himself blushing, even though it was just Kitty. Grasping her upper arms, he tugged her up to stand before him. "Kathleen Dillon, I ought ta' – "

"Ought ta' what?" she challenged, eyes intense and eager.

His body urged him on, prodded him to meet her challenge, to plunge them both right back into that bed and spend the rest of the evening wrapped up in her passion and heat and love.

The clock chimed seven, its unwelcome interruption announcing that they were now late for the party. He let his lips move on hers gently and slowly, promising much more later. When he pulled back, she moaned.

"Matt, please don't stop," she begged, her tone breathy. "Please, make love to me again."

God, he wanted to do just that. He ached to be with her again. But he shook his head. "You want Festus to clomp up those stairs and walk in on us like this?" Half-clothed and aroused.

He figured it was the mention of his deputy that did it. Exhaling hard, she stepped away. "Damn."

Chuckling, he nodded. "Yeah."

"Later?"

"Oh, yes." Definitely later.

Letting her hand slide down his chest and brush teasingly over his trousers, she twirled away toward the wardrobe where she had hung her gown for the evening. "Well, I guess I should finish dressing, then, to protect the men of Dodge from my charms."

Swallowing down the renewed craving her touch had brought, he threw in a bit of charm himself. "Honey, you could be wrapped in flour sacks, and the men of Dodge would still be in danger. Hell, there wouldn't be a man in Kansas safe."

Her delighted smile lit up the room. Oh, how he loved that woman. As he shrugged into the crisp white dress shirt she had laid out for him, he found himself fighting back an abrupt and disturbing swell of emotion. Never really comfortable showing his feelings, his recent revelations to her had loosened that lifetime hold on them, and he worried now that he wouldn't be able to suppress his impulses as well. That could be dangerous, he knew, in the wrong situations.

Still, it had liberated him, in a way, and brought him closer to the woman he had loved for twenty years. He supposed it was a small price to pay. Kitty was back. He had a son. And the world that had almost collapsed on top of him only a few months before seemed eager and ready to embrace him again.

"Matt?"

The ominous tone crashed into his pleasant thoughts. He had known her too long not to recognize the hint of sadness, of fear. He looked up to see her emerge from behind the curtain, gown draped over her arm. One look at her face twisted his heart. Pain tightened the beautiful features.

Oh God. In his chest, his heart raced, pushing at his throat. She was _not_ leaving him, he reminded himself. She had told him so. She was _not _leaving. "Kitty?" he managed.

Head down, as if she were gathering strength for her words, she said, "Yesterday, when I left the note with Dobie, I said we needed to talk."

He wondered if it was possible for someone's heart to pound right through his chest. "Yeah?"

Her fingers grasped the fine material of the dress, kneading it, showing her nervousness. "I put it off last night, but I before we go downstairs, there is something I – I need to tell you. Something that is – hard – for me to say, but that should be said."

_She's not leaving_, his brain repeated, trying to convince his heart. It wasn't successful.

He stood, immobile, waiting for the dire news, waiting for her to tell him that it didn't matter that he was giving up the badge, that they would never be free of enemies who wanted to kill Matt Dillon, that she couldn't raise her son in such an environment. He waited for her to announce she was sending Sam back to New Orleans, to live with Ira and Charlotte, to be safe from the danger his father would bring to all of them. Or maybe – despite what she had said the night before – maybe she was going back herself.

Suddenly, weakness swept over him, and he forced his knees to lock so he could remain upright. "I thought – " His voice broke, and he took a breath to smooth it out. "I thought it was – to tell me you weren't leaving." Please be that.

Her eyes lifted to his, soft and guilty. "Oh, Matt. Like I told you last night, I never intended to leave you. Not again."

Somehow, he kept standing, somehow, he didn't just collapse there on the bed in relief. With more strength than he thought he had, he cleared his throat, drew in a deep breath, and nodded. "Okay."

"I'm _not _leaving," she repeated.

Yes. He knew that. He would always know that now. Gaining more control, he let his fingers reach out and swirl over her shoulder. "Okay. "

"And _you're_ not leaving," she announced abruptly, tears in her eyes despite her obvious effort to smile.

The caress stopped. Matt pulled back, a confused smile curving his lips. "What?"

"I said, '_you're not leaving_.'"

He sighed, understanding. She wanted to stay in Dodge, then, or thought _he_ wanted to stay, anyway. "Kitty, I appreciate the thought, but I meant it when I said we could move wherever you want. If we stay in Dodge – well, it wouldn't be wise to stay here after I turn in my badge. Too many risks. And too hard on whoever comes in to replace me."

"I know," she assured him surprisingly.

His hands rested on her hips, as if holding her still so he could figure out what she was saying. "I don't understand – "

"You're not making this any easier, Cowboy," she laughed, but the sound was tight.

He had always prided himself on his quick perception and ability to comprehend, but this time he couldn't decipher all the clues. Of course, that rarely worked with Kitty, anyway. "I'm sorry, Kitty. I just don't know what – "

Drawing a deep breath, she lifted her chin and said evenly, "You're not turning in your badge."

He frowned and shook his head, disappointed. Surely she didn't think he would go back on his promise. "I _told_ you I would, Kitty. Don't you believe me?"

"I believe you," she assured him, then took another breath and said quietly, "but I don't _want_ you to."

His jaw dropped and his eyes widened. The hands that held her hips slipped away. After several seconds of silence, he whispered, "What?"

"I don't want you to resign." She couldn't have stunned him more if she had told him she was going to be the organist at the Dodge City Baptist Church.

"What?"

Patiently, she said, "I don't think you should resign as marshal."

"Kitty – " he began, stepping forward, still not truly comprehending what she was saying.

But she held him at arms length. "Let me finish. It's hard enough to say it as it is." She braved a smile. "Being a lawman is so deep in you. If you were to give that up, what would you do?"

"I've thought about that," he assured her. "Ranching, maybe."

But she shook her head. "You would be lost. _Mister_ Matt Dillon, not United States _Marshal_ Matt Dillon? You would be lost."

"I _wouldn't_, Kitty," he promised. Oh, God. Maybe she was still sending Sam away.

"I know better. And if you were lost, I guess I'd be lost, too. You have to be who you are. And I wouldn't want to be with someone who wasn't."

The pain beneath her brave front tore at him. "Kitty, I don't know what you're saying. You've wanted me to give up that badge for twenty years, and now you're telling me – "

"I know. Don't you think I've told myself the same thing? Twenty years is a long time, Matt. And you've been a lawman for longer than that. Close to thirty years, counting your time with Adam Kimbro, I would guess. I've known all along how much it means to you, how much it means to Dodge, even to Kansas and maybe the whole country, now. It's entwined in who and what you are. I tried to imagine what you would be after you turned in the badge. Farming was out, of course. Too boring. Banking? Ridiculous. Like you said, ranching, maybe, but I don't think so. I realized that being a lawman is so deep in you, Matt, you'll never get it out."

"I can try, Kitty," he assured her earnestly, still fighting to understand just what she was telling him.

"Damn it!" she cried, confusing him even more. "Don't you see what I'm saying? I'm not leaving, and _you're_ not leaving. We're staying. Here. In Dodge. Where I'll be Kitty Dillon, wife of United States Marshal Matt Dillon."

His eyes glistened, his breath caught. Surely, she wasn't offering – she wasn't telling him not to – Grasping her shoulders, he drew her closer. "Kitty, do you know what you're saying? That means more gunfights and more barroom brawls. The risk – "

"You've risked more than that for a long time," she said softly. "You've risked your heart twenty years ago, after you'd been hurt before. That wasn't easy. I know from experience."

"I didn't have a choice," he admitted, leaning in and running the backs of his long fingers against her cheek, the surge of love for this woman almost overwhelming him. "I couldn't _not_ love you, Kitty."

She didn't try to suppress her tears, and they rolled down her cheeks.

But he had made a promise. He saw what she was doing, and he wouldn't allow it. Not now. Not anymore. "You're not going to do this. I made you a promise. I – I gave you my badge."

"And I'm giving it back to you." Turning, she shoved her hand into one of the carpetbags that rested on the floor, pulling it back out with the shining metal resting in her palm.

He swallowed hard at the poignant gesture. "I've already sent in my resignation."

"Get it back."

"What?" Surely she wasn't serious. "Why?"

"Maybe I figured it would be a mistake."

"But – "

"And maybe I figure you'd be a lousy rancher."

"Kitty – "

"And just maybe I figure we'd be safer with that badge still on your chest than with it off."

"What about Sam?" he asked.

Her face softened at the baby's name. "Matthew Samuel Dillon has a right to grow up knowing his father, and knowing just what kind of man Matt Dillon is. He'll be proud of you, Matt. Just like I've always been proud of you. I hope he can be half the man his father is."

Stunned, he pulled her to him, and she let him, buried his face in her hair, unable to stop the emotion from wetting his cheeks. "My God, Kitty," he breathed raggedly, overwhelmed by her gesture.

"I love you, Matt," she answered, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I love you so much."

Her closeness, her touch, her scent all attacked his sense of logic, and he found himself responding with a pulse against her. Grimacing at the inappropriateness of his lack of control, he tried to withdraw, but she shook her head and held on tighter.

"No, Matt. I want this now. I want _you _now."

"Kitty – " But his resistance vanished as she tossed the badge back into the bag and ran her hands between them.

They were involved again almost immediately, the months of separation impossible to make up for in only a few hours – no matter how incredible they were – clothes ripping, bodies moving frantically against each other, lips and hands bringing moans and cries. In fact, they were so involved that neither of them heard the knock. It took a second, then a third knock to break through to them.

Chest heaving, Kitty tried to push away. "Matt, stop, I think – someone's – at the – door."

But he wasn't interested in the door. His lips continued their delicious caresses of her most delicate areas.

"Matt," she moaned as he held onto her, wanting her to do anything but answer the damned door.

"Kitty?" a voice called tentatively.

Something pushed at his memories. Something relatively important. Something he was supposed to be doing. But he really didn't want to be doing anything else but making love to Kitty right then.

"Marshal?" the voice called again, a little louder.

"Go away," he murmured, not sure at all that he could pull back from the edge he found himself perched on.

But Kitty's voice broke through, the urgency different enough from her passion to drive into his consciousness. "Matt," she whispered frantically, "get up. _Get up_."

"I'm up," he assured her. Surely she could feel that for herself.

"No. I mean move off me. I have to answer the door."

The door? Oh, hell. The party.

Even as he fought through the haze of desire, it took another a hard shove for her to coax him back enough to slide out from under him. He watched as she shrugged into a robe and reached for the knob.

Glancing back at him, she noted pointedly, "Uh, you might want to get out of sight, big man. You're giving Hannah quite a lot more to see this time. And last time she was more than interested – "

The threat sent him scrambling off the bed in such haste that his legs tangled in the covers and dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Are you okay?" Kitty asked, eyes both amused and a little worried.

He grunted in response, still aching from the discomfort of interruption, and stumbled into the dressing room, knowing Hannah would have to be blind and deaf not to realize what had been going on. Then he realized it didn't matter. It didn't matter at all that Hannah knew they had been intimate. It didn't matter if the whole town knew anymore.

The burden of twenty years lifted from his shoulders in that one moment of realization, and he fell back against the wall, his body slumping from the sheer relief. As he listened to Hannah's muffled, but clearly amused, conversation with his wife, he reflected on what Kitty had told him, on her unselfish sacrifice.

Maybe he would let her do it. Maybe not. They would talk about it, anyway, but he had brought Kathleen Russell enough heartache the past twenty years. It was time for him to bring her some joy.

With a nod to his own conviction, he tugged on the pants and shirt he had grabbed on his way into the dressing room. The bustling noises that rose from below told him the party was already going strong – even with the guests of honor conspicuously absent. He would take considerable ribbing from Doc about the cause of their tardiness. Still, it would be in good fun.

Their private party would come later. The people of Dodge awaited their arrival – not as the Marshal and Miss Kitty, but as Matt and Kitty Dillon. A new beginning.

He just hoped it was the beginning Kitty had wanted all those years.

**TBC**


	16. One Step at a Time

"Haunted Heart?" What's that?

Okay, I know it's been quite a while since the last chapter – and I apologize for it profusely. Most of you know what curve balls RL has thrown at me recently. Thanks for everyone's best wishes and encouragement. You are great people!

Consider this a late Christmas present or an early New Year's gift. The POV is a little different than usual in that I've used three different characters to show the action, but I hope it's easy enough to follow. I couldn't figure out how to get all the scenes in without doing that.

I had originally planned for this chapter to wrap things up, but my muse had other ideas – don't throw things, now! Couldn't just finish it without a bit more angst, right? So there will be more _HH_ – and I promise I will work on getting the next chapter out this week.

In the meantime, enjoy, and Happy New Year!

**XXXX**

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Sixteen: One Step at a Time**

POV: Matt/Kitty/Newly

Spoilers: "Seven Hours to Dawn;" "The Jailer;" "The Pillagers;" "The Bullet;" "Morgan;" "Mannon;" "Hostage!"

Rating: PG-13+ (Teen+)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

**XXXX**

Matt groaned as he moved against Kitty's welcoming softness, engulfed by her sweet warmth, embraced by her gentle arms. He continued to be amazed that this beautiful creature still wanted a tired, scarred up lawman, but she showed him over and over that she did want him – she wanted him very, very much. He felt the build of climax at the pit of his belly, fought to hold off, to wait for her, his jaw hard with the effort.

He counted his blessings every day, grateful that God – and Kitty – had given him a second chance, that they had each other again, and that they had Sam, so much more than he could have ever imagined for himself. He wouldn't waste it.

Her writhing quickened, a tell-tale sign he knew very well, just like the soft moaning of his name and the tightening of her fingers on his forearms as he held her above him. She was near her peak, and he could let go just a little more. A few more thrusts and she would be there. Then he could –

The ugly crack of a gunshot startled him, jerking him violently away from ecstasy. To his horror, he felt the hot splatter of blood, saw grotesque scarlet blossom across Kitty's lovely breasts. She stared, open-mouthed, at him, her expression incredulous.

"Matt – " she whispered, but it was all she could manage before her body collapsed, her lifeblood – _his_ lifeblood – draining from her veins.

"No!" He cried out in anguish, in despair, scrambling to cover the dire wound with his hands, to stop the destruction of his world. "Oh God! No! Kitty!" But it was too late. Without a sound, her tender heart that had held him for 21 years stopped, tearing away his own heart with it.

He cradled her in his arms, his face buried in those fiery tresses he had so recently caressed, his stunned brain sluggish and numb.

"Marshal?" A hand fell on his shoulder to pull him from her, but he shook it off roughly.

"No!" He felt her die in his arms, felt himself die with her.

"Marshal!" The hand grabbed him, and he swung out wildly, furious at the intrusion into his grief.

"Get the hell away from me!" he snarled, his tone like an animal, ferocious and dangerous.

"Marshal!"

"I said get away from me!"

"Matt!"

Matt Dillon's eyes opened suddenly to stare into the gray-black of pre-dawn. In the faint light he could make out the shaken features of Newly O'Brien looming before him.

"Matt?" The deputy knelt at his side, eyes wide.

Matt wiped the sweat from his face with a trembling hand and twisted frantically to search around him, almost collapsing in relief when he realized where he was and what had happened. A dream. Only a dream. A terrible, terrible dream – but just a dream. Thank God.

With a shuddering sigh, he fell back onto his bedroll, chest heaving, heart pumping. Another dream. Oh God.

"Marshal?" Newly asked quietly, mumbling a bit. "You okay?"

Matt swallowed the nausea back down his throat and nodded curtly, turning his head to hide the flush of embarrassment that raced up his face.

"Must have been a nightmare," the deputy observed, his voice a little muffled. "Sounded pretty intense."

Intense? Hell, yes. He gritted his teeth to force some control through his shaking body, a struggle that was, unfortunately, not at all foreign to him. Last night it had been gnarled-teeth fugitives snatching Sam right from Kitty's arms while he watched impotently, locked in his own jail cell. The night before that, both Kitty and Sam had gotten in the way of a gunfight on a hazy Front Street and been brutally cut down by bullets meant for him. He had woken in a cold sweat in his hotel room in Hays City, grateful, at least, that Newly slept away obliviously in a separate room.

Of course, he was no stranger to nightmares. He had been haunted by them periodically for most of his professional life, had re-fought battles, chased after outlaws, and re-lived shoot-outs on and off since the first time he'd had to take a man's life in the line of duty. Through the years, he had learned to deal with the paradox of a job that demanded he protect lives by sometimes taking them.

But he had never learned to deal with those times when his dreams shifted from his own danger to threats on Kitty. What tore him up most were the visions that had come not from his imagination but from real life itself: Mace Gore, and Etta Stone, and Manez, and Morgan, and Mannon.

And Bonner. Bonner.

And more – all because of him. All because of him.

Those torturous memories had acquired new strength recently, had hit him full force since he and Kitty had returned from New Orleans. He knew it was because his responsibilities had changed – a choice that was his own, but a choice that brought with it the complications he had foreseen twenty years before when he told Kitty he couldn't commit to her. It would have been so much easier if they had just left Dodge, if Kitty had not insisted that he not resign. She had even gone so far as to wire the Attorney General himself and politely but firmly retrieve Matt's retirement request. The man had been more than happy to comply, sending back a lengthy – and embarrassingly gushing – letter praising Matt's abilities and service and assuring him he could continue in the U.S. Marshal's service for as long as he so desired.

That had been nine months ago, and the nightmares had only gotten worse. He wasn't sure why exactly, had never put much faith in omens or soothsayers, but the persistence of those dreams stirred an uneasiness deep in his bones, an uneasiness that something was about to happen. As much as he berated himself for the foolish notion, he couldn't quite shake the disturbing thought.

After a minute, he became aware that his deputy watched him closely, waiting for a response, and he found that he couldn't meet those dark eyes for fear that he might glimpse pity in them.

What was the question? Intense?

"Yeah," he muttered, hoping that was sufficient.

"Sure." Newly took a breath, wincing. "Be dawn soon. Maybe we should just get on up, head for home."

Home. Kitty. That's exactly where Matt wanted – _needed_ – to head.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah."

"I'd say it's another twenty miles to Kinsley, then thirty-five or so on to Dodge. We won't make it back tonight. Tomorrow for sure, though."

Working to slow his heart, Matt pulled himself up to sit cross-legged on the blankets, resting his head in his hands, still fighting the sick feeling that boiled in his belly. Newly – bless him – slipped away to give the marshal a moment to regain his composure.

When he felt like he had avoided a complete collapse in front of the other man, Matt raised his head and saw that the deputy busied himself with dragging his saddle over to the sturdy bay, pausing once or twice to work his chin gingerly. Matt frowned and flexed his hand, guilty suspicion nudging him with the slight protest of pain across his knuckles.

"Newly?"

The younger man turned quickly, eager to please his mentor. Matt knew the sometime-gunsmith and deputy idolized him, and he was more than a little uncomfortable with the hero worship he saw in those dark eyes way too often. Still, he was a good deputy, and a man of strong principles. Matt was lucky to have him.

In the light of the coming dawn, Matt saw the swollen jaw and bloodied lip. "What happened to you?" he asked automatically, even though he was afraid he already knew.

Newly grinned ruefully and rubbed at the injury. "Well, Marshal, I'll have to say I hadn't ever intended to be on the receiving end of one of your backhands. I figure I'm right lucky not to be spittin' teeth."

Damn. "Newly, I'm – I'm sorry," Matt said, pushing up from the bedroll to check on his deputy. He forgot about the stiff knee until he planted it, and the pain that shot through his leg almost drove him back to the ground. Waiting out the wave of dizziness, he braced himself and limped toward the other man.

"Marshal – " Newly began, concern tightening his features.

But Matt waved off any questions. "I'm fine," he declared, his tone clearly accepting no argument. "Let me take a look at it."

Taking his cue, Newly nodded, even though his eyes couldn't hide the doubt. "It's not too bad, Marshal. Besides, you didn't mean to. You were having a nightmare."

"I can still be sorry," Matt insisted, taking the deputy's chin in his hand and studying the red, swollen flesh. "Beefsteak would be helpful," he noted.

"You got one handy?" Newly asked, laughing, then wincing.

"Sorry. Don't figure jerky would do the same thing."

"Probably not."

Satisfied that the injury was not dangerous – although it certainly looked painful enough – he relaxed a bit. "We'll have Doc take a look when we get back to Dodge."

"Marshal?"

He knew it was coming. "Yeah?"

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Sure."

"You seemed a little – distressed." That was an understatement.

"I'm okay, Newly."

"I just – "

"I'm _okay_." The last assurance came out sharper than he had intended, but, even as much as he trusted his deputy, he was not about to discuss his dreams – his _nightmares_ – with him.

Newly cleared his throat and nodded. "Okay. Sure. I'll just – I'll just get Buck saddled for ya."

Suddenly irritated at himself, Matt caught the younger man's arm. "Newly, I, uh, I appreciate it, but – "

A compassionate smile was his answer. "I understand, Marshal. It's okay."

Again, Matt thought about the young man. Who would have thought the green easterner who carried his gunsmith tools in a medical bag would have turned into a right decent deputy? No, Matt amended, much more than just decent. As he watched Newly go about the task of saddling his horse, the marshal took more care, more depth, in contemplating exactly how good a man he was, and a thought began to form, a thought that grew and sank its roots into a plan he had already taken steps toward completing.

Slipping his hand into his vest pocket, he pulled out the reply he had received from his earlier telegram to the Attorney General. Kitty would probably be mad at him, but she would get over it – he was pretty sure about that. And even though the decision wouldn't do anything about ridding him of old enemies, he figured at least it might keep him from acquiring new ones.

Dragging a deep breath into his lungs, he held it a few contemplative seconds before taking the final step. "Newly?"

The deputy turned immediately. "Sir?"

"Don't saddle Buck, yet."

"Sir?"

If Matt Dillon could believe in one thing, it was his instincts. They had served him well for 48 years, and he figured there was no reason to stop now. Smiling, and as sure about anything as he'd ever been – he motioned for the younger man to sit.

"I have a proposition for you – "

**XXXX**

Kitty Dillon smiled in delight as she watched her eleven-month-old son take a wobbly step in Hannah's firm grasp toward his mother's outstretched arms. Overwhelmed with the power of her love for the child, she wondered how on earth her heart didn't just explode with it, wondered how people possessed the capacity to deal with more than one child.

"He's gonna git it soon," Hannah noted confidently.

"He has his father's determination," Kitty said.

"And his mama's impatience," the older woman added, laughing as Sam abruptly plopped down on his rear, his familiar blue eyes widening in surprise only momentarily before he wrapped familiar long fingers around her thumb and climbed back to his feet. "He's tryin' ta' take too many steps at a time. Wants ta' do it all at once."

He might have some of her disposition, but Matthew Samuel Dillon looked more and more like his father every day, Kitty decided, enjoying the handsome sight of the boy's long, chestnut curls and toothy grin. He already had a mouthful of teeth, which had turned out to be more liability than asset. Kitty had been forced, reluctantly, to wean him two months earlier when nursing became too much a game of chance.

The hair, which she adored, was a point of small contention between Matt and her. He had voiced his opinion that the generous mane made his son look like a girl. Kitty resisted the idea that the child have his first hair cut before he was a year old, but after a well-meaning old woman had commented on how pretty Sam was, she decided perhaps she would concede the point.

""Wael, thar he is. I declare, Miz Kitty, thet boy's done grow'd annuther two inches since yesstidy."

She let her eyes shift from her child to watch Festus clink through the saloon doors, his teeth showing through the scruff of beard as he looked down toward his best friend's son. Sam ignored him, concentrating instead on his tenacious attempts to take his first steps under his own power.

"He's gonna be big as his daddy," the deputy told them – about the fiftieth time he'd prophesied that since he first glimpsed the child at the railway station those many months ago.

"He could be," Kitty allowed, having a hard time imagining anyone being as big as Matt – even his own son.

"My Aint Clarence sed ya' kin tell how big a feller's gonna git by his hands." He thrust his own index finger into the child's free hand, the one that wasn't hanging on to Hannah's supporting finger. "Looky thar at them hands. Yep. Big as his daddy."

This time, Sam rewarded the compliment with another grin – so much like his father's that Kitty felt her heart pound with the anticipation of Matt's return. He was overdue – again – but at least he had wired her from Hays City, letting her know the trial ran over, and he and Newly would be heading out as soon as things wrapped up. Her optimistic estimate had placed their arrival tomorrow, but experience cruelly reminded her that it would most likely be the next day before she could see him – and touch him – again.

Before she could tell him.

Twenty years of waiting had not necessarily given her patience, but it had at least provided her the practice of masking her _im_patience. Smiling fondly at Festus, she rose and patted him on the arm. "How 'bout a beer?"

As expected, the deputy's eyes lit. "Wael, I reckon a beer'd be rite welcome."

"I figured it would," she said, sliding behind the bar. "Come on over."

He followed eagerly, smacking his lips in anticipation. "Did I tell ya yer pertikularly looksome this mornin', Miz Kitty?"

"I already offered you the beer, Festus," she laughed. "No need to butter me up."

He managed to look affronted. "If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'. Ya do look mighty handsome today."

Twisting her lips in amusement, she avoided Hannah's suddenly curious gaze and said, "Why thank you, Festus." Then she let her brow furrow slightly. "But does that mean I'm not looksome every day?"

The poor man sputtered over his first sip of beer. "Wael, no – "

"No?"

"I mean – yes – "

"Yes? You mean I'm not looksome every – "

"Aw, fiddle, Miz Kitty. Don't you go a mixin' my words up. You know'd very well whut I meant."

Smiling to let him off the hook, she agreed. "All right. I'll just say, 'thank you,' and leave it at that. At my age, I shouldn't question any compliment."

"Yer age?" Festus declared. "Shorely Miz Kitty you kaint be more'n – " He faltered, at a loss.

"More than?" she prompted, curious and wary all at once. What if he overguessed?

"Twenty-five?" Festus squeaked out wisely.

Kitty couldn't help but laugh. Maybe the deputy had finally learned the nuances about women's ages. "Close enough," she figured. Truth was, he was seventeen years off, and they both knew it – but who was she to correct him?

"You heerd from Matthew lately?" he asked, the relief on his face a clear indication that he was glad to escape from the trap she had set for him.

Allowing him the diversion, she nodded. "He wired me yesterday. The trial was delayed. He and Newly ought to be back in a couple of days." She hoped.

Her disappointment must have shown because he pushed a smile to his lips and offered cheerfully, "Two days ain't bad. I'll be glad ta' see him, though." The smile faded a bit as he grew serious. "Not thet I kaint handle these yea-hoos round 'bouts, of course, but it ain't easy bein' on the job all day an' all night, too, dontcha know."

Kitty refrained from mentioning that those were the very hours Matt had kept for over 20 years as a marshal. As much as he had the reputation for malingering, Festus really was a good man, and both she and Matt owed him their lives three times over.

The beer foamed nicely on the refill. The deputy nodded his thanks to her and lifted the glass for a second helping.

"Excuse me."

Kitty glanced past him to see a rough-looking man peering over the tops of the swinging doors, a tattered hat perched a little sideways on his head. "Yes?" she acknowledged.

Taking that as invitation, he stepped into the room, and she saw that the rest of his clothing was only minutely less worn than the hat. "Mornin', ma'am," the man greeted, touching his hand to the brim.

"Morning."

"Mornin'," Festus acknowledged briefly before taking a generous swig of ale.

"Uh, could any of you tell me if the marshal's around?"

As much as she tried to quell it, Kitty felt the surge of fear in her veins with those words. Most of the time when someone came looking for Matt it didn't end up pleasantly.

"He ain't in town rite now. Done gone up ta' Hays City fer Rane Baskin's trial. Orta be back tomorrow sometime," Festus supplied.

The man seemed disappointed. "Oh."

Eyes narrowing, Festus asked, "How come ya' need ta' know?"

"Oh, I don't need ta' know. Don't matter none ta' me if the marshal's here or not."

Festus' frown deepened. "What's yer name, mister?"

"Link Jenson."

"I don't remember seein' ya in Dodge before."

"Ain't been here for long. Just passin' through ta' Colorado Springs – soon as I can git some money for train fare."

"Why do ya' need the marshal?"

"Like I said, I don't. But there's some feller around lookin' fer him, and I told him I'd ask."

Kitty's heart clenched suddenly, and she caught Hannah's wide-eyed glance. Even Festus stiffened.

"A feller, ya' say?" he asked.

"Yep."

"Who is he?"

"Ain't never seen him before."

"Whut does he want with the marshal?"

Jenson shrugged. "Don't know. Business, he said."

Kitty's fingers dug into the edge of the bar. Business? Too many men had come into town with "business" for Matt Dillon. She didn't like the sound of it – never had.

Festus apparently didn't, either. "Whar is this feller?" he asked, plunking his glass down and frowning.

"Over at the Dodge House. Said he'd get settled, then come lookin' for the marshal."

Come looking?

"Did he say whut kinda bidness he had?"

"Nope."

"Whut'd he look like?"

"Sorta young, in his late 30s, I figure, maybe early 40s. Right smart dresser, not fancy mind you, but neat and fairly clean, considerin' he'd been on the trail. Oh, and he wore his gun like he was used to it, you know? Like he weren't no stranger to usin' it."

"Show me," Festus ordered, abandoning his beer, and the two left the saloon abruptly.

An icy tingle ran up Kitty's spine and plunged into her chest from behind. She let her hand drop to her abdomen in a vain attempt to squelch the sudden nausea that roiled there. "Please God," she prayed. "Please don't let it happen now. Not now."

Ever since Coy Brennan had breathed his last in the dust of Front Street, Dodge had remained mercifully quiet, and Kitty allowed herself a glimmer of hope that Matt's reputation – and maybe the encroachment of civilization into the West – had finally proven convincing enough to persuade the remaining gunslingers to give the town – and its marshal – a wide berth. She should have known it was too much to expect.

For once, she found herself wishing that Matt wouldn't come back soon – that he'd stay away until this latest challenger got tired of waiting and moved on. But the very fact that the man was there practically guaranteed Matt's expedient return. It was her lot in life to be forever at the mercy of irony.

"Papa – Papa – Papa – "

Her son's innocent chanting drew Kitty back from a brief wallow in self-pity with a silent scold at herself for allowing the dip. Forcing cheer into her voice, she swung around the bar and over to Hannah, sweeping the child into her arms and kissing him soundly.

"Yes, Sam," she told him, "Papa is coming back soon. He'll be so proud of you. Maybe you'll walk all by yourself for him, hmm?"

The boy smiled at her. "Papa come home?" he asked, patting his mother's cheek. He had recently taken to putting together simple sentences, and Kitty marveled at the capacity of children to absorb knowledge.

"Yes, sweetheart," Kitty assured him, exchanging a worried glance with Hannah. "Papa's coming home real soon."

Just not too soon, please, Matt, she pleaded silently. Just not too soon.

**XXXX**

Newly O'Brien winced when he accidentally cocked his jaw the wrong way. He had told the marshal he was lucky not to be spitting teeth – and that was the absolute truth. Dillon's blow had been softened by the haze of sleep or else he figured his head would still be reeling.

He didn't have to imagine too hard what kind of dream had held the marshal in its clutches. He had heard the anguished cry of her name, had seen the perspiration bead on the grimacing face, had definitely felt the power of the thrashing arms.

Even though he would never let the marshal know it, this wasn't the only time he'd seen Dillon struggle with nightmares. Over the years, Newly had awakened more than once on the trail to the big man's mutterings and groans, his subconscious re-living some of the horrors he had experienced – or creating new horrors. It came with the territory, the deputy figured, at least for a man whose basic nature was to value life but whose job it sometimes was to take life.

More recently, he had heard Dillon shout out two nights before in Hays City, had almost burst into the marshal's room, fearing that his mentor was in physical danger and needed assistance. But just as he reared back to kick in the door, he heard the deep voice choke out _her _name, and realized what was happening. He hadn't mentioned anything about it, knew that the very private man would have been embarrassed if he thought anyone had been witness to his vulnerability.

There was no secret anymore, of course, about Matt Dillon and Kitty Russell, not since they had returned from New Orleans, married and parents to boot. But for Newly and most of Dodge, that relationship had been long acknowledged and accepted. In fact, it hadn't taken the green gunsmith long at all to see that there was something between the U.S. marshal and the Long Branch proprietor.

He had to laugh at himself when he though about just how naïve he had been on that first trip to Dodge. His first glimpse of Kitty Russell would be emblazoned forever in his memory – an enchantingly regal creature amid a bevy of common hoodlums and cowboys. Her beauty was ageless, and he couldn't help but take interest in her – at least until he realized that his competition would be a six foot, seven inch, 240-pound U.S. marshal.

That trip had been detoured to the lair of the border cut-throat Manez. At the time, he had mentioned to Kitty that if they got word to "that marshal in Dodge," it "might could be" that he'd help. She had smirked a little and agreed that it "might could be." Newly later realized that there had been no "might could" to it at all – it was a sure thing all along that Matt Dillon would come after them – after _her_.

From then on, it was easy to catch glimpses of them sitting close, talking low. Even when they were the most discreet, the sparks that snapped between them could not be disguised. He counted it as privilege that for the next few years he was privy to a few rare moments.

Glancing with subtle interest at the marshal, noting how he rode Buck with the surety of years of practice, he thought about that dreadful trip to Denver after Dillon had been shot in the back by Amos Potter, when they didn't know if he would walk again – or even live. Ignoring the witnesses, Kitty had called him "Cowboy" and run her fingers through his shaggy curls. It was a lover's caress, and one of the few times the couple allowed such evidence in public. Of course, the marshal wasn't in any shape to protest, even if he'd wanted to – and it didn't seem like he wanted to at all.

As bad as that had been, though, worst of all was Jude Bonner. Newly still shuddered when he thought about that time, still felt the blows the dog soldier and his men had inflicted, still saw the fear on Matt Dillon's face when he had to tell him that Bonner had taken Kitty, still heard the rage in Dillon's voice when he slammed an unrepentant Virgil Bonner against the cell bars. He had thought the marshal was going to kill the outlaw right there – figured he would have if the sheriff hadn't apologetically interrupted so that the law could take care of the scum for them.

And then, when he stepped out onto Doc's landing, after spending the night in vigil by her bedside –

Newly's eyes had lit on the bare shirt first, only two tell-tale holes left where a badge had hung for so many faithful years. Alarmed, he searched Dillon's face, stunned at the silent but determined fury that seethed on those strong features. In that moment, Newly knew the depth of Matt Dillon's feelings toward Kitty Russell. He had no doubt, later, that the marshal would have killed Jude Bonner – and then been killed himself by Bonner's men – if Festus and the posse hadn't ignored Dillon's instructions and rode on after him.

Somehow, throughout it all, they had survived – even past the last crisis when Kitty had left. But fate – or the good Lord – had intervened and brought her back – with interest. And now Matt Dillon had another chance. A chance to untangle himself from the tight bonds of duty to the law. A chance to live his life on his own. A chance to be happy.

Newly considered what Dillon had talked with him about that morning. Stunned, the deputy had asked for a little time to think things over, to ponder his choices. Now, though, as he looked over at the lawman, he realized there was no choice at all. Not for Matt Dillon and not for Newly O'Brien.

He watched the big buckskin canter along for a moment, the front legs kicking high and sure, as they always did with Matt astride him, as if the confidence of the horse matched that of the rider. "Marshal?"

Dillon turned, face expectant.

"Marshal," Newly asked tentatively, "are you sure?"

The older man nodded, immediately understanding what Newly was talking about. "I'm sure."

"I just don't want you to regret it."

"If a man lives by regrets, he won't ever risk anything. What kind of life is that?"

He looked up into those vivid blue eyes, only imagining the untold things they had witnessed through the years. "It's just that, well, I know you don't like to hear stuff like this – but you really are a legend."

Dillon breathed out a small, humorless laugh. "Legends aren't real people, Newly. As soon as soon a gun takes them down – or the years do it for the gun – another legend will take their place."

Newly shook his head, unconvinced. "I don't think anyone will ever take Matt Dillon's place."

"Matt Dillon doesn't really exist," the big lawman muttered, looking out over the prairie, momentarily lost in some distant thought. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and turned back to the deputy. "Not the legend, anyway," he added with a rueful smile. "You just be the best Newly O'Brien you can be. You're a good man. Be a careful man, too. One step at a time."

One _giant_ step, Newly observed. Overwhelmed by the confidence this man – this _legend_, he insisted in his mind – had shown in him, Newly sucked in a breath, nodded, and said, "All right, then."

The legend rewarded him with a rare, genuine grin. "All right."

As they continued riding, Newly's veins surged with alternating excitement and terror. He had always set quite a store by Matt Dillon's decisions. He sure hoped the marshal was making the right one now.

With Dodge only a day's ride away, it wouldn't be long before they'd find out.

**TBC**


	17. He Watched

I used the last of my break to get this chapter done. There is one more to go, which I hope will be out within a week or so. Thanks for your patience and your wonderful feedback. This chapter answers a few questions (but not quite all), including the one most of you have speculated about.

(BTW - The gun spin – you'll know it when you read it – is from "Ten Little Indians." It's a cool scene if you get a chance to watch that ep.)

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Seventeen: He Watched**

POV: Doc

Spoilers: "Ten Little Indians;" "Disciple"

Rating: PG-13 (Teen)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

At night, the Long Branch was the hub of activity in Dodge City, raucous and alive with drinking, smoking, gambling, and various other amusements, some more questionable than others. But come morning, the place resembled a church more than it did a saloon. As he grew older, Doc Adams decided he preferred mornings. They were calmer, quieter, and generally less likely to provide him with drunk or maimed customers.

This particular morning, as he had done many mornings before, he hovered over his coffee, pretending to sip at it while actually watching Kitty Dillon. There were many reasons to watch her – not the least of which being that she was a beautiful woman.

Sure, she wasn't quite the slip of a girl who had trudged through the mud and into their lives that rainy day so many years ago, but she was even better now: a real woman whose compassion and strength and goodness had impacted the lives of more than one person in Dodge City. He smiled into the dark liquid and considered that the life that had been most impacted was that of their hard-headed marshal, who had taken his own sweet time – almost too much time – to figure it out.

But he did figure it out, and now, as Doc watched her play with the child that long-awaited union had produced, he offered up a silent prayer of thanks that they had come through crisis after crisis finally to reach this point.

He had made it his practice to watch Kitty ever since that first day, when his eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the exquisite creature in the café. Through the years, though, he had watched her for other reasons, sometimes out of sheer admiration for her skills with a deck of cards, sometimes out of amusement at her witty banter with Chester and later Festus, sometimes out of deep interest in her subtle eye contact with a recalcitrant marshal, sometimes out of fear for her life and concern for her health. And sometimes out of a mutual angst created by their shared love of a man who stubbornly placed himself in danger for them, for Dodge, for anyone he thought he could and should protect.

He had watched her fret, despite her valiant efforts to mask it, while they waited for an overdue Matt to return. He had watched her barely hold it together, hovering behind him, while he dug yet another bullet out of the marshal's body. He had watched her grieve over the excruciating decision to leave everything behind and do what she thought was best for all of them.

And after she had left, and he couldn't watch _her _anymore, he had watched the man torn apart by that decision. He had watched the strong, stoic lawman – survivor of uncounted battles – slowly disintegrate in the absence of the other half of his soul. He had watched the town that had counted on their formidable protector's steadfastness and reliability for twenty years suddenly find a common bond by making sure they had Dillon's back – emotionally and physically. And – thank God – he had watched that man set his jaw, gather the steel that ran deep in him, and finally go after what he wanted – what he _needed_.

When they had stepped off that train – Matt and Kitty, with the incredible addition of their child – Doc knew he wasn't the only one watching over them. A power much higher than he was had intervened.

And he thanked God – literally – that he could watch her once more. So he had for the past several months – and he did now in the Long Branch. This morning, though, his perusal was not so much aesthetic as it was medical. While his friend's eye took note of the wistfulness in her gaze when she allowed it to drift to the doors, his physician's eye took note of the mild paleness in her cheeks.

"How 'bout a beer this time?"

His thoughts dissolved at Hannah's question. Pulling out his watch to see if he was close enough to noon for propriety, he nodded. "Well, sure. Okay."

"If ya' don't mind me sayin' so, Doc, ya' look a mite tuckered."

"I was up with Maybell Printley all last night. She had a hard time with the baby. Didn't want to leave her until I was sure things were stable."

"Is she all right?" Kitty asked with a touch more concern than usual.

"She's fine. Has a beautiful little girl."

A chuckle came from the bar. "Girl? Makes five of 'em now for Hank, don't it?" noted Hannah.

Doc shook his head. "Yep. He said he was going to call her 'Henry' whether she was a boy or girl."

Kitty's eyes widened. "Did he?"

"Well, I guess 'Henrietta' is close enough," Doc figured.

"Better than 'Henry' anyway," Kitty observed.

He looked at her closely and frowned at the tight strain around her eyes. "You must have come into town mighty early this morning."

She cocked an eyebrow, and he saw that his subtle probing hadn't fooled her. "Hannah was gracious enough to let Sam and me stay with her the last couple of days. We thought Matt was coming back earlier, but – " Her voice fell off in disappointment.

"What are partners for?" Hannah interjected. "Besides, we hadn't had a chance ta' spoil that boy recently with ya' livin' outta town."

"I'm afraid he's already too spoiled as it is," Kitty said, but her smile softened the mild accusation. "And we're not very far out of town. I just thought maybe we could be here when – " She faltered, but Doc knew what she wanted to say.

Patting her hand lightly, he nodded. "Matt'll be along soon."

But a disturbingly dark shadow crossed those fine features. "I hope not, Doc."

"What?"

Her voice little more than a whisper, she repeated, "I hope not."

"Well, whatever for?" he blustered before he saw the true fear on her face.

The familiar jingle of spurs interrupted her answer as Festus clanged down the steps and up to their table. "Mornin' Miz Kitty," he greeted, then bent over to let his hand scatter through Sam's curls. "Hey thar, Mister Dillon," he added. "Ya' cotched enny outlaws t'day?"

"Festus!" Kitty scolded, her tone uncharacteristically harsh toward the deputy. They all jumped a little in surprise.

Silent for a moment, Festus managed to gather himself. "Shucks Miz Kitty, I didn't mean – "

Visibly softening, she sighed. "I know you didn't. I'm sorry." She was instantly forgiven.

Doc continued watching her, his concern for both her physical and emotional well-being. As much as she agonized over Matt's being in constant danger, he figured it would be ten times as hard on Kitty for her son to grow up to be a lawman.

Her hand dropped to her waist, a move he wasn't sure she even realized she had made. "I guess I'm just worried about – "

"I bin a' keepin' my eyeballs on thet feller whut's waitin' fer Matthew, now, Miz Kitty," Festus assured her. "Don't you go 'bout frettin' over that."

Alarmed, Doc pushed his beer away and turned to face Festus. "What fellow? There's someone waiting for Matt?"

Festus threw a worried glance toward Kitty before he lowered his voice and explained. "Wael, yestiddy this drifter come in here a lookin' fer Matthew. Only he wusn't actual lookin' fer Matthew, he wuz lookin' fer him fer some other feller. Leastways he sed he wuz lookin', only I ain't shore th' feller actual sent him. More like he wuz jest curious – "

"Festus, what in tarnation are you talking about?"

"Stranger's in town looking for the marshal," Hannah clarified. "Says he has business with him. Nobody seems ta' know who he is, but he sure looks like he can handle a gun."

Kitty flinched, and Doc saw Hannah grimace at her own words.

"Well, what's his name?"

"Don't nobody know, Doc," Festus said. "He ain't sed."

"Where's he staying?"

"Dodge House," Hannah supplied.

"Why don't you just go over there and look at the register?"

Festus scowled. "Wael, ya' kaint jest walk in an' – " He stopped, eyes wide, then turned on his boot heel. "I'll be back terrickly," he announced before stomping out of the saloon.

Shaking his head, Doc turned back to Kitty. "I can see why you're worried."

She didn't bother to deny it, simply nodded.

Touching her wrist as casually as possible, he let his fingers find her pulse. "You feeling okay? You look a little pale."

"She was sick this mornin'," Hannah volunteered, ignoring Kitty's sudden glare. "Got a bit of coffee and toast down her, but that was all."

"You don't have to tell everything you know," Kitty scolded half-heartedly, slipping her hand from his grasp.

"Yes, she does," Adams said. "She does if it's about your health." He lowered his voice, not sure how much Hannah knew. "Any cramping?"

"No. It's just normal, like you said the other day."

"Does Matt – "

She shook her head. "You just confirmed it the morning he and Newly left. There wasn't much chance at privacy out there in front of the jail. I wish – I was hoping he'd be back by now."

He smiled reassuringly and patted her hand again. "He'll be back soon."

"Just in time for that gunslinger to – "

His hand closed on hers, holding it tightly. "Now, you don't go worrying about that. It's not good for you. Festus already told you he's keeping an eye out. You saw what happened with Coy Brennan. Nobody in this town is going to let somebody get to Matt. You just count on that."

She allowed a grateful smile, even though he saw that she didn't really believe what he said. Of course, he didn't believe it, either.

"Miss Kitty! Miss Kitty!"

Nathan Burke's yells burst into the Long Branch before his body did. Doc started to mutter that the freight clerk had no more sense than Festus, but realized that it was an insult to the deputy, and even though he'd never admit it, he set quite a store by the scruffy hillbilly.

Before they could stand all the way, Burke followed his voice, out of breath and pointing. "They're back, Miss Kitty. The marshal and Newly. They're back!"

"Well for Pete's sake, Burke, do ya' have to come in here like a wild man just to tell us that?"

"But Doc, you don't understand. That fella's still waiting. He's leaning against the rail over at the Dodge House, just looking. You think he's going after the marshal?"

Doc wanted to tell him he was crazy, but he couldn't. As much as he hated it for Kitty – for all of them – it appeared that there was a real possibility they were in for yet another showdown on Front Street. He started to order Kitty to stay, but knew it would do no good at all. Instead, he stayed by her side as they stepped through the batwing doors.

As soon as the two men came into view, Doc quickly assessed their conditions, just as he had done for Matt since that first time the new Dodge marshal had returned from the trail so many years ago, bloodied and barely hanging in the saddle. Little had he known it was a harbinger of 20 years of such returns. This time, he noted with a sigh of relief, neither one looked injured. In fact, both horses and riders cantered in at an easy pace. As they neared the saloon, the marshal looked up expectantly, a smile spreading his lips when he saw Kitty waiting on the boardwalk. Doc couldn't help but grin at the big man's involuntary reaction. They pulled up, both tipping their hats to the ladies.

"Matt," Doc greeted. "Glad to have ya' back."

"Glad to be back," Matt returned, throwing a leg over Buck and stepping to the ground. Doc watched carefully for a grimace, but either the marshal wasn't hurting today or he was masking it well.

Newly didn't dismount. Instead, he took the big buckskin's reins from Matt. "I'll get the horses stabled," he said, swinging around. But he wasn't quite fast enough.

"Hold on there, Newly," Doc ordered, frowning and scooting around to the other side of the deputy's bay.

The younger man tried to turn his head away, but it wasn't any use. It didn't take the practiced eye of a physician to see the ugly, swollen bruise that discolored most of his jaw on the left side. The lip was bloody and busted, too. Someone had slugged the young man, but good.

"Well, my goodness son, what happened to you?" he exclaimed, as those watching craned around to get a look.

"Uh, Doc – " Matt began, and Adams' head twisted in surprise at the regret that weighed down the marshal's tone.

But before Dillon could finish, Newly said quickly, "It's nothin' big, Doc. Comes with the territory." He caught Dillon's eye and both men exchanged some sort of message, intriguing Doc even more. "Right, Marshal?"

After a long beat, Matt pressed his lips together and nodded. "Right."

With a click of his teeth Newly tugged on the horse. "Come on, Buck."

"Matt, what on earth happened to New – " He started to ask, then stopped at the rare, but delightful, sight of the reserved and very private man greeting his wife with a tender kiss, right there on the boardwalk in front of everybody.

When Kitty pulled away, slightly breathless, Doc heard Matt whisper, voice urgent, "I missed you, Red. I missed you a lot."

"I missed you, too, Cowboy," she returned, her smile rather bemused. "You must be tired. I'll have Floyd bring some hot water up to the room."

"Room?"

"Sam and I have stayed with Hannah for a couple of nights."

Regret crept across the marshal's face. "I'm sorry we were late, Kitty."

But she brushed at the dust across his shoulders and smiled. "Nothing you could help. How about that bath?"

Her ploy worked, erasing the regret and drawing a flush of color to his cheeks. He lowered his voice even further, and Doc had to strain to hear him ask, "Join me?"

Now it was Kitty's turn to blush. Her only answer was a sultry look from under hooded eyes. Doc thought – certainly not for the first time – that Matt Dillon was one lucky man.

"Papa! Papa!" The delighted cry delayed any reunion, as Hannah emerged from the saloon, Samuel Dillon wiggling furiously in her arms, reaching out toward his tall father.

Grinning, Matt took a step toward them, his own long arms held out to take his son. "Sam! Boy, you've grown half a foot since I left."

The child lunged for him, unconcerned about being practically air-born. The marshal caught him with both hands and lifted him high into the air, a spectacle that drew the attention of several Dodge citizens as they passed, fond smiles gracing their faces. Doc reminded himself that this town had suffered right along with their marshal those dreadful months after Kitty left. It was only fair they should be able to rejoice with him, too.

"Papa come home!" the child announced, patting his father's chest happily as Matt pulled him close.

It seemed to Doc that a bit of regret crept into Matt's eyes, but he smiled anyway and assured his son, "Papa's come home." Twisting to look down at Kitty, he suggested, "Why don't we go inside and – "

"Matthew!" Festus called from across the street. "Ain't you a site fer sore eyeballs!"

"Festus," Matt greeted, grunting slightly as Sam squirmed in his firm grasp.

"It is shorely good ta' hev' ya' back. 'Course it's been quiet. These rascals 'round chere knowd not ta' mess wi' Festus Haggen."

"I have no doubt," Matt assured him.

"Thang is, though, thar is somethin' mebbee ya' need ta' know about."

Instantly, Matt's manner grew more serious, and he shifted Sam in his arms, leaning closer to Festus. "What's that?"

Taking a breath and shooting a quick, apologetic look toward Kitty, the deputy said, "Stranger's in town, lookin' fer ya'. Sez he has bidness with ya'."

"You know his name?"

"Zeke Lane. I checked at th' hotel."

The marshal's eyes narrowed. "Zeke Lane?"

"I bin keepin' a eye on him, and I hev ta' say, he looks like a feller pretty handy with a gun."

"You say he's been looking for me? Did you talk with him?"

"Wael, no. Some drifter come in yesstidy a'talkin' 'bout him."

"Drifter?"

"Scrungy feller name of Link – "

"Marshal!"

Conversation halted instantly at the call from across Front Street. Doc spun, heart thudding in his chest as they all turned to see a slender man, neatly attired, gun slung low and sure across his hip, approaching with a slow but steady stride. Not taking his eyes from the man, Matt handed Sam to Kitty.

"Get back inside the Long Branch," he told her, voice low.

"Matt – "

He repeated his order, voice still level, but clearly accepting no argument. "Get back inside."

Doc watched the dread cross her face, knew the same feeling himself. Lane continued to advance, arms to his side, stride cautious.

It never got any easier, watching the showdowns, waiting to see if he would be digging another bullet out of Matt, praying that if he did, the marshal would still be alive to make it necessary.

The marshal shifted carefully to look back, his hand close enough to his holster to draw, but falling short of the motion. Once again, the eyes of Dodge rested on him.

Along the boardwalk, the men of Dodge gathered, their eyes glancing around, sending messages silently among them. Doc felt a thrill of both excitement and fear to realize that those with guns had now brushed their hands over the handles and were ready to draw. They had Matt's back – in spades.

But Doc wasn't the only one who saw. The marshal stepped down from the boardwalk so that he was away from any spectators. With only a quick glance at the men, he shook his head, a curt move that sent his orders: no interference. Doc knew he would never put anyone in danger if he didn't have to – except himself.

The physician ached to run out and stop the tragedy – because it would be one for sure. Someone was about to die. He prayed as hard as he ever had that it wouldn't be Matt Dillon. Lane continued to walk steadily toward the marshal, his eyes never leaving the big lawman. Matt squared, a move they had all seen many, many times.

"You looking for me?" Dillon called out.

Suddenly, Lane stopped, his step unsure. Time slowed. Doc imagined he could hear the seconds tick past, matching the beat of his heart. No one moved. No one breathed.

Then, Lane yelled, "Marshal!" as his hand flew to his gun.

A shot split the air before Doc's eyes stopped blurring from the action, its dreadful echo reverberating off the store fronts for another couple of seconds. Another blast followed, this one louder and heavier. Ignoring her husband's earlier instructions, Kitty burst through the saloon doors, empty-armed, hand at her throat.

"Matt!" she groaned, rushing toward the street. Doc threw his arms out to stop her and hung onto her ask they both looked, hoping – praying – that they would see the tall form still standing.

Eyes burning, he squinted, first scanning the ground where Matt had been, then swallowing in relief as his gaze had to move upward. The marshal was still standing, tall and steady, but strangely enough he wasn't shooting. Instead, he held his gun up, almost over his head, the iron spinning fast around his finger for a few seconds before the pistol butt slapped back firmly against his palm. It was an impressive display that Doc had seen him do only once before, but the physician knew it wasn't to show off any firearm prowess. The marshal had done it to keep himself from firing.

Frowning in confusion, Doc looked over to where Lane had been, expecting to see the outlaw sprawled out dead in the dust. But the man still stood, as well, his own gun drawn in readiness. No puff of smoke drifted from it, though, and Doc found himself even more perplexed.

"Doc, look!" Kitty pointed to their right toward Moss Grimmick's stables.

He blinked at the sight of Newly O'Brien gazing casually back at them, the Greener in his hands still smoking slightly. Across the street, a crumpled figure lay half-on/half-off the boardwalk. Drawing enough calm into his bones to move, Doc exchanged glances with a frowning marshal, then brushed past Kitty and shuffled toward the younger deputy.

Blood had pooled beneath the dead man, the hole that killed him blown dead center in his chest, his eyes staring vacantly into the sky. Doc realized the only man who could help him now was Percy Crump. Looking up, he caught Newly's eyes, pained, but steady.

"You okay?" Doc asked.

Newly nodded, an unexpected air of confidence gracing the motion.

It didn't take long for the crowd to gather. Matt pushed through the throng to stand over the body, his own gaze locking with his deputy's, a look of gratitude and approval passing from blue eyes to brown.

Newly drew a breath and explained. "This fellow tried to shoot you, Marshal. He was hiding at the corner of the stables over here, waiting until you stepped out into the street."

Gazing again on the sprawled body, Doc sniffed. That scruffy looking fellow had tried to kill Matt? He didn't look capable of such a thing. Of course, Doc reflected, few dead men looked capable of much.

Festus peered down at the dead man, eyes un-squinting for once. "Why thet thar's Link Jenson, thet feller whut told us 'bout the man lookin' for ya', Matthew."

Doc tensed as Zeke Lane joined the group just as Newly offered, "I think he was taking advantage of – well, of what was about to happen – "

The other gunman just hooked his thumbs in his belt and cocked his head to get a look at the man on the ground. "His name ain't Link Jenson," he observed.

Matt looked down himself then grunted. "No, it's not," he agreed, straightening. "That's Butcher Cole."

A ripple ran through the crowd. The name of Butcher Cole evoked visions of plunder and rape and murder from almost twenty years back. Doc remembered the terror that had swept through the county – even the whole state – as that outlaw and his band of marauders ripped viciously across the territory. As the physician recalled, a young marshal, the badge still shiny on his chest, had tracked down the killers and brought them all to justice – and acquired himself two serious bullet wounds for his trouble. Butcher Cole had been dragged out of Dodge screaming his intentions to finish off that young marshal if it took twenty years.

No one was quite sure why he was never hanged for his crimes, but, as far as they all knew, he had spent the past twenty years in federal prison in Arizona. And now, he had apparently returned to carry out his vow.

Dillon rubbed absently at his chest against the memories of long-healed injuries. After a beat, he lifted his brow toward Newly. "I owe you, marshal," he said.

Another ripple ran through the crowd at the unexpected title.

Newly shrugged. "Comes with the territory, Marshal."

"What in tarnation – " Doc began.

Matt turned toward Lane, and to everyone's surprise, thrust out a hand to the man it appeared he had been ready to draw on. "Mister Lane, I'm – "

"Now, I'd be a right ignorant deputy if I didn't know Matt Dillon." The man smiled and took the hand. "Seems you already know who I am."

"I'm assuming the Attorney General sent you," Matt said.

Doc's head was spinning almost a quickly as Matt's gun had a minute ago. "Matt, what's going on?"

"You assume right," Lane said. "I was supposed to be your temporary replacement." He looked over toward Newly. "But I see maybe you already have one."

Matt looked back at Newly and nodded. "Did he send anything with you?"

"Oh." Land shoved a hand into his vest pocket and pulled out a bulky envelope. "Said just let him know when you were ready."

"Thanks." Matt took the envelope.

Still baffled, Doc repeated, a little more urgently, "What's going on?"

Before the marshal could respond, though, the crowd parted, and Kitty came through, her eyes wide. She stopped just in front of Matt and placed a hand on his arm, as if she had to touch him to make sure he really was all right. "I'd like to know, too. What does he mean by 'replacement'?"

The marshal grimaced a bit and blew out a breath. "Well – "

But before he could finish, she cried, "Matt, you're hurt!"

Instantly, Doc squinted at the big man, alarmed to see a spreading stain of red on the sleeve of his upper right arm. He cursed at himself for not noticing it earlier.

"I'm okay, Kitty."

She frowned, unconvinced. "Doc?" she called, lifting the arm so the physician could take a look. Even though he had insisted he was okay, Matt couldn't suppress a hiss of pain.

"He got off a shot before I realized what he was doing," Newly said ruefully.

"He just winged me, Doc," Matt insisted, tugging his arm away from Adams' grip.

"Winged you, huh?" the doctor echoed doubtfully, his practiced eye taking in the generous amount of blood that soaked the torn sleeve. "You let me be the judge of that."

"Marshal," Burke asked loudly, "what's this about a replacement?"

Several others in the crowd echoed Burke's question, but Doc saw the slight paleness that had crept into the marshal's cheeks and knew he was hurt more than he let on.

"He'll tell you later," Adams snapped, just as interested in knowing, but more interested in getting Matt upstairs and tended to.

"Arrite!" Festus stomped about, scattering the crowd. "Ever-boddy git on back ta' whut you wuz doin'. Nothin' ta' see here."

Of course, there was plenty to see, but for the seasoned citizens it wasn't anything particularly unusual, so they acquiesced, still glancing back occasionally as they moved on about their business.

"Replacement?" Kitty repeated, as Doc fussed over her husband's arm. He heard the word continuing to be echoed down the boardwalk as the citizens dispersed.

Dillon smiled down at her, his stance suddenly a little unsteady.

"All right," Doc ordered, "You can talk all you want to after I've gotten a look at that arm." He snorted in irritation. "'Winged,' my foot."

**XXXX**

The marshal perched on Doc's exam table, shirt and vest draped over a nearby chair so the physician could get to the wound that was high on his arm – almost at his shoulder, pleased that it had not come close to the scar that was an eternal reminder of the injury that almost took his forearm. This one wasn't nearly as bad, even though it would have put most men in bed for a week. Doc figured Dillon would favor it the rest of the day, then discard the sling he would only pretend to use even for that long.

"See, Doc?" the big lawman insisted, "I told you I was just winged." Once he was seated, Dillon had regained his color and now protested the doctor's ministrations.

Adams shook his head. "Matt, what you call being 'winged' is what other men refer to as being _shot_!"

"It's not too bad, though, is it?" Kitty asked, her face paler than it had been a few minutes before.

Doc frowned, noting her pallor. "Well," he conceded, "I wouldn't say he was 'just winged,' but it could have been worse."

"See?" the marshal said.

The door to the office opened, and Hannah entered, a squirming Dillon baby in her arms. "He's gonna bust if he don't get to see is papa," she declared.

Matt grinned and slipped off the table while Doc was still trying to secure the bandage.

"Hey!" Adams protested, managing to tie up the ends hastily.

Ignoring any pain from the wound, the big man extended his arms to take his son, but the boy shook his head and pushed against Hannah. "No, Papa," he insisted. "I walk."

"What?"

Lowering the child to the ground, the older woman let him wrap his fingers around her thumb to gain his balance, then gently withdrew her support. His legs, chubby but still long, planted firmly on the floor before he took one, toddling step. Surprised when he didn't end up on his rear, he chanced another, then another until he had wobbled over within easy reach of his father's outstretched arms. With a triumphant grin, he allowed the big, strong man to swing him up high again, the deep laugh rumbling in his chest.

"By golly!" Matt exclaimed, bracing the child in his left arm. "Look at that. Kitty, did you see that?"

"I saw," she said, laughing.

"When did he learn that?" he asked, his expression a little sad that he had missed yet another significant event in his child's life.

But Hannah's words lifted the sadness. "Just now," she told him. "Been tryin' for a while now. Guess he needed some incentive – like seein' is daddy again."

Matt's lips tightened, and Doc realized the marshal was clamping down on a swell of emotion. Swiping at his own eyes, Adams decided he wasn't the only one.

"Well, now," Hannah declared, her own expression decidedly sentimental. "This calls for a celebration. I'm buyin'!"

"Sounds fine," Doc agreed.

But Kitty waved off the invitation, a move that drew everyone's immediate attention to her. "Count me out," she said, voice too weak.

"Kitty?" Doc asked, but suddenly she was sliding down the wall, the blood draining from her already ashen face.

Doc reached out to her, but Matt had shifted Sam back to Hannah and lunged to catch his wife before Adams could finish his move. "Doc!" he yelled, voice hard with fear.

As fast as he could lower his aging body, Adams knelt at her side, fingers automatically moving to find the pulse at her wrist. A little fast, but not bad. "Kitty?" he asked gently.

She opened her eyes, raising a shaking hand to her forehead. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Guess I got – a little dizzy."

"Dizzy?" Matt asked, then lifted troubled eyes to meet Adams' gaze. "Doc?"

If he hadn't been a little worried about Kitty, Doc would have smiled at the look of something akin to panic on the normally controlled marshal's face. It was endearing to see the concern he had for her – always had been.

"She's okay, Matt," he assured the worried husband. "It happens sometimes in her – well, it happens."

"In her – what, Doc?" the marshal snapped, pouncing on the unfinished sentence. "What's wrong?"

Adams exchanged glances with Kitty. So much for telling Matt in private. She'd need to spill the beans before the poor man had an attack of apoplexy thinking the worst.

"Well, nothing's wrong, really," the doctor began.

"She almost fainted here," Matt declared impatiently. "What do you mean nothing's wrong?"

"Well – "

Sighing, Kitty placed a hand on her husband's arm. "I'm fine, Matt. It's just that – " She glanced at Hannah and Doc, who didn't give an indication of budging.

"Kitty?" Matt urged, voice hoarse and anxious.

She smiled at him. "Well, Cowboy, it's just that – I'm pregnant." She paused, then added, "Surprise."

As Doc had told him before, there were times that Matt Dillon could put on the best poker face of anyone he knew. But this wasn't one of those times. On the contrary, the shock was plastered plain to see all over his rugged features. His jaw dropped, his bright blue eyes opened wide, and he stared at his wife until she couldn't help but laugh.

"You okay, Matt?" she asked finally when he still hadn't spoken in almost half a minute.

"I – what?"

"She's _pregnant_, Marshal," Doc provided, chuckling a little himself. "That means – "

"I know what it means. I just – how – when – "

Adams coughed a little and said, "I didn't figure I needed to go over the how with you, seeing as how you already accomplished that. As to the when, you'd know better than – "

"Doc!" Kitty scolded.

Dillon glared at the doctor, lowering his voice so that his conversation became exclusive between his wife and him. Doc took the hint and backed away, although he couldn't help overhearing them anyway.

Taking her hand in his, he murmured, "Kitty, I didn't expect – I mean, you always, well – we were – at least I thought we were – I mean we were _careful_ – "

The redhead smiled slyly, a mischievous tone touching her voice. "Picnic. Silver Creek."

A furious blush swept across Matt's rugged cheeks. "Ah."

When Doc stepped toward them again, he didn't bother wiping the grin from his mouth. The marshal quickly overcame any embarrassment, though, and stood to his full, considerable height.

Still holding Kitty's hand, he let his intense gaze bore down on the doctor's. "Doc, is this – I mean is it safe?"

"Safe?" Adams asked, even though he knew what Matt meant.

"I mean – " Dillon threw a wary glance toward his wife, then decided to risk the wrath his comments were sure to invoke. "I mean, Kitty's forty-two – "

"Doc knows how old I am," she interrupted, glaring at her husband.

He ignored her and pushed, "Is it _safe_? Is Kitty going to be all right?"

Adams wanted to ask him what he would do if he said no, if he told him that Kitty would be risking her life to bear this child, if he had to give him a choice between saving the mother or saving the child. But he already knew the answer to that. Patting the younger man reassuringly on the shoulder, he said, "She should be fine, Matt. She's on the outside range of child-bearing, you're right – "

"Thanks," Kitty said flatly.

" – but she didn't have any trouble with Sam, and this is not her first pregnancy, so I don't see why we should anticipate any problems."

"Thank God."

Relief washed over those strong features, and Doc sniffed back a sudden swell of emotion as the big lawman sank to his knees, gathered Kitty into his arms and held her tightly, his lips finding hers in a loving, gentle kiss. The physician indulged himself for a moment with the tender scene, then cleared his throat and looked away. He noticed Hannah had no qualms about observing them, though. The saloon owner was grinning widely as she watched the couple.

Adams almost interfered when Kitty wrapped her arms around her husband's neck, still kissing him back, and Matt stood, scooping her up into his arms, but the sheer delight on the big man's face stopped him momentarily. Never had he seen such unabashed joy lift those features that usually showed the weight of the world. For her part, Kitty seemed delightfully stunned, hanging onto him for all she was worth.

"Hey!" Doc protested, finding his voice and cringing as he envisioned the marshal's leg or back or shoulder or still-bleeding arm – or any untold number of old injuries – giving way and pitching both of them to the floor. But Dillon didn't even grunt as he carried her past the doctor and into the bedroom, easing the door closed behind them.

Wide-eyed, Hannah nodded in their direction. "They're not gonna – why, they're not gonna – not in broad daylight – "

Doc shrugged. He didn't think so, but Matt had done some uncharacteristic things the past year or so. He found himself both relieved and a little disappointed when, after a couple of minutes, the marshal appeared at the door, Kitty visible behind him, tucked into Doc's bed.

"What?" Matt asked at the look on both Doc's and Hannah's faces.

"Oh, nothing," Doc assured him, chagrined at even having considered the thought.

Glancing quickly toward Hannah, who finally took a hint and turned slightly, offering Sam a set of keys to play with, the marshal tugged Adams aside and bent to lower his towering body a little closer, giving them at least the semblance of privacy. His lips pressed tightly for a minute before he drew a heavy breath.

"Galen," he began, voice cracking.

Adams started at the name, only the second time Matt had ever used it.

"She is gonna be all right, isn't she?" Dillon asked, so with such heart-breaking earnestness that Doc had to swallow before he responded.

Of course, even though Kitty was strong and healthy, no doctor could guarantee something only God had complete control over. His hesitation wrenched a hard breath from the big man.

"_Isn't_ she?" he pushed, then looked at Doc, his eyes raw and honest. "She _has_ to be," he ground out softly between clenched teeth. "You know that, Doc, don't you?"

Looking up into the anguished face of the man who was the closest thing he had to a son, Adams saw twenty years of regret and six months of despair and almost a year of redemption all hinging on his words, all waiting for him to proclaim them to be counted as gain or loss. Regardless of what his physician's training told him, he knew what he had to say.

Smiling, he placed a hand on the broad shoulder. "She's going to be fine, Matt. I promise." He issued up a prayer that his prophesy would be true. "I promise."

Doc watched the anxious man fight to hang onto the gush of relief that threatened to embarrass him. After a few seconds, their gazes met, the marshal's rich with both gratitude and demand. He had no doubt Matt Dillon was going to hold him to that promise.

Clearing his throat roughly, Dillon stood straight and turned so that Hannah wasn't blocked from the conversation anymore. "She wants to go home. Is it – would that be all right for her?"

Gently, Doc said, "I think so. Take it easy, though."

Matt nodded, taking two long strides toward the door.

But Doc had to do one selfish thing before he let them go. "Just a minute, Matt. You haven't explained what Lane was talking about out there in the street. Replacement?" Narrowing his eyes, he asked pointedly, "What have you gone and done?"

Dillon let his hand drop from the knob, cocked his jaw, then said quietly, "Something I should have done ten years ago, Doc."

Before Adams could ask more, he was interrupted by Sam, who had realized his father was leaving and reached out from Hannah's arms. "Papa!"

A grin breaking the tension on his face, Matt took the child and held him close. Voice husky, he repeated, "Something I should have done ten years ago."

"Are you resigning, Matt?" he asked flatly, not completely sure what answer he wanted the marshal to give him.

Dillon paused, a curious smile crossing his lips. After a moment, he said, enigmatically, "Yes and no."

Adams glanced at Hannah, who shrugged back. "What's that supposed to – "

"It's – kinda complicated." He sighed and looked at his son, who jingled Hannah's keys happily. Gently extracting them from the child's grip, he handed them back to the saloon owner. "And I'd like to tell Kitty first. You understand."

Doc did, indeed, understand that. Matt had learned from experience that Kitty didn't like being the last one to find out about significant revelations. "Well, okay. I'll come out later and check on her." And you, too, he told himself silently.

"Thank. I'll get the wagon from Moss." He turned back for a moment, teeth tugging slightly at his lower lip. "Uh, can you watch her for a while, Doc?" Adams considered the suddenly boyish expression on his friend's face, was reminded of a rather shy young marshal he had first met over twenty years before.

Could he watch her for a while? Compared to twenty years, _a while_ was a piece of cake.

He smiled. "I sure can, Matt," he said. "I sure can."

Because whether Matt asked or not, Doc Adams knew he would be watching her – watching _them_ – for as long as the Good Lord gave him that ability.

**TBC**


	18. Home is Where the Heart is

I find myself apologizing yet again for how long it has taken to post. Of course, RL is the main culprit. I find myself with precious few moments to write these days. Another problem was that this chapter just didn't cooperate. I have changed it 20 times or more. I finally decided I'd just have to go with what I had and hope you guys were okay with it. There is one more chapter and perhaps an epilogue. Thanks for hanging in there with me and for encouraging me in so many ways.

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Eighteen: Home is Where the Heart is**

POV: Kitty

Spoilers: "The Badge;" "The Bullet"

Rating: PG-13+ (Teen+)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

Kitty Dillon swung her legs over the side of Doc's bed, pleased that her head had decided to cooperate and stop swimming. In fact, she felt just fine, thank you, a fact that she figured would mean absolutely nothing the instant the physician saw her standing. Nevertheless, she was fine, and as soon as they returned, she would take her husband and child and go home. She and Matt apparently had some things to talk about.

He hadn't said a word to her about resigning, at least not since she had insisted he retract his letter to the Attorney General months ago. He had merely gone about doing his job as usual, although she did notice that Festus and Newly seemed to pull more out-of-town duties than before. Of course, that suited her just fine, even though she was the one who had pushed him not to resign, wanting him to be happy – in a way trying to make up for the agony she had put him through after she left. As usual, the thought of those terrible months without him twisted her heart. All the what-ifs haunted her. What if she had waited for him to come back, like Doc asked? What if she had told Hannah flat out where she would be? What if she had told Matt about the baby? What if –

Shaking her head, she shoved those painful, frustrating, and fruitless ponderings away. Didn't do any good now. As Matt had told her, that was water under the bridge. They were finally sailing together in the same vessel toward the same destination, or at least they had been until Zeke Lane's revelation that he was Matt's "temporary replacement." Now, she wasn't so sure.

Regardless, she regretted his not being there when Sam was born. With a private smile, she let her hand rest on her stomach, feeling the subtle swell there. This time it would be different. This time he would see his child come into the world. She would make that up to him, at least.

Having suppressed the troubling memories, she drew in a deep breath, nodding in satisfaction when her legs held her steady. Maybe she could sneak down the stairs before Doc –

"Here, now!" The startling, but not unexpected, scolding stopped her at the threshold between the bedroom and office.

"I'm perfectly fine," she proclaimed to the physician who stood scowling before her.

Adams waved a hand in the air. "Oh, sure you are. You almost fainted right here not twenty minutes ago and now you're ready to dance the Can-Can, are you?"

"What do you know about the Can-Can?"

Momentarily distracted, as she had hoped, he bristled. "I'm a man of the world, I'll have you know. I've been to – " The gray eyes narrowed as he caught on and he continued in a wheedling tone. "Now, Kitty, you just go on back and lie down. Matt'll be here in a minute and you can get up then."

"I promise you, I really do feel all right now. Not dizzy. Not queasy. I promise."

He frowned, and she read the doubt on his face. After a beat or two, his shoulders rolled in a resigned shrug. "Suit yourself," he growled. "Nobody listens to their doctor, anyway, especially that hard headed bullet magnet you married, by the way. He didn't just get 'winged,' you know. He lost a lot of blood, should be in bed himself. But I suppose all those years of medical training I took were wasted since everybody around here diagnoses themselves anyway."

Kitty ignored the ubiquitous fussing and placed a pacifying hand on his arm. "Want to check me out?"

"Miss Russell," he confided with a smirk, "I checked you out that first day you waded into the café, and I've been checking you out ever since."

"Is that so?"

"Trouble is, that big cowboy you're waitin' on was checkin' you out, too. If I'd just been twenty years younger – "

"Or if I'd just been twenty years older," she offered generously.

He smiled wistfully, and she was surprised to see that he really seemed to be considering that "what if." Then he cleared his throat and looked down, flushing a bit.

"Well, somebody needed to keep that overgrown galoot straight." He ran a hand over his mustache and shook his head. "Too late now, anyway. Guess you'd better stay with him – for the boy's sake." His voice fell, hardening into seriousness. "He'd be lost without you. You know he would, don't you, Kitty?" He left the rest unsaid: "You know he _was_."

She let her tone match his. "Not any more than I would be lost without him, Doc. You know that, too, don't you?"

Adams nodded, his kind face darkening. "I know. Sure I know. You two almost – "

"_Almost_," she emphasized, the ache brushing over her heart again. "Almost. But that's past us, now."

"So it is." He let the heavy moment linger a bit, then smiled up at her. "I'm not sure I've said this to you since – well, it's awful good to have you home, Kitty."

Tears sprang to her eyes at the depth of emotion in his rough voice. She kissed him softly on the cheek, and returned, with equal sincerity, "It's awful good to be home."

He sighed; then she saw him push a smile to his face. "You know," he said, his tone lighter, "that big oaf was so excited earlier that he headed out the door without his shirt on."

Her eyes widened at the vision – a very nice one, but one she preferred to keep private. There were already too many appreciative female eyes following him down the boardwalks as it was. "He didn't!"

Adams chuckled. "Came back all red-faced about thirty seconds later. Seems Edsel Pry was walking by when he got to the bottom of the steps."

Laughter erupted from Kitty's throat at the image. She would have sacrificed a bottle of her best whiskey to have seen that. "Oh, Doc," she gasped. "Poor Matt!"

And lucky Mrs. Pry, she thought. The old biddie didn't deserve such a treat.

The outer door opened and Kitty half-expected to see the biddie herself come storming in, cackling about civil servants and indecent exposure. She was mildly disappointed when Zeke Lane appeared instead.

"Excuse me," he said, eyes taking in both Doc and Kitty in a quick sweep, a habit she had observed from Matt many times. It came with the job. "I was looking for Marshal Dillon. Miss – " He faltered a bit and frowned. "Uh, the lady that runs the Long Branch said he would be up here."

A pang of regret touched Kitty. For so long she had been the "lady that runs the Long Branch." It was hard to hear that title applied to someone else, even if she had voluntarily relinquished it.

"He'll be back in a minute," Doc said. "You can wait, if you'd like, Mister Lane."

The younger man's brow rose, as if he were surprised to learn Doc knew who he was. "Thanks. I'm sorry I don't know your – "

"Name's Adams," Doc supplied. "I usually get the job of patching up folks around here. The Marshal's a regular customer."

Despite her attempt not to, Kitty flinched a little at the unpleasant reminder.

Lane turned toward her and tugged at the brim of his hat. "Ma'am. You must be Marshal Dillon's wife. I heard he got married a while back. It was kinda big news. Friend of mine up in Colorado, Jake Clayfield, said he never figured Matt Dillon for marryin'. Guess you proved him wrong."

She arched a brow, and he blushed suddenly, as if he realized he might have been improper. "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, if I – "

But Kitty saw the amusement in that loaded observation and just smiled. "I guess I did," she agreed, still a little surprised about that herself.

Emboldened by her kindness, he added, "If I may say so, ma'am, he's a fortunate man, the Marshal is."

"I wouldn't dream of disputing you."

"Now, Kitty," Doc said, taking her arm, "why don't you at least sit until Matt gets back? "

Gently, she turned to the hovering physician. "Would it make you feel better?"

"It would."

In concession, she eased herself into his office chair, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her relieved sigh.

"Did I hear you tell Matt you were sent here as a replacement?" Doc asked the deputy, his attempt casual, but not enough to smooth the sharpness of the underlying interest.

"Yes, sir," Lane answered, suddenly tugging his hat from his head, as if just now remembering his manners. "I was over in Cimarron when I got the telegram from the War Department sending me this way."

Adams brushed at his chin, a sign that told Kitty he was angling for more information. She might have frowned at him to stop, if she hadn't been just as curious, herself, to know.

"Just temporary, though, I think you said."

"That's right. I was just going to be here until they assigned someone permanently. From the looks of things, though, the Marshal already decided on that fella that took out Butcher Cole. I'll head back toward Colorado in a day or so."

Kitty's thoughts spun with confusion, curiosity, hope – and irritation. It seemed Matt had made a decision – perhaps the most important decision of his life – without asking her. Well, without telling her, anyway. She didn't necessarily expect him to seek her permission, but she would have appreciated a little notice before the whole town found out. The edge of anger knifed through her, and she took a breath to suppress it.

"I hafta say I never expected to meet Matt Dillon," Lane continued. "He's – well, I guess it sounds kinda corny to say, but he really is a legend."

"Oh, no," Doc assured him, gray eyes lit with mischief, "not corny at all. In fact, why don't you tell him that yourself? I know he'd love to hear it."

Lane raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Oh, sure. Get a big kick out of it."

Kitty threw the older man a scowl, half-serious, half-amused. He knew very well Matt despised the term "legend" when it was applied to him. It embarrassed him.

Heavy footfalls on the steps drew their attention.

"The legend approaches," Doc noted with more than a touch of drama. Kitty couldn't help but smirk at the devilish anticipation on his face.

Then, they heard the giggles of Sam Dillon drift delightfully up to them. Kitty's anger vanished completely, replaced by a smile that was instant and uncontrollable.

Instead of Matt's deep tones, though, the voice they heard carried a distinctive nasal twang. "Doc!"

Adams clicked his tongue against his teeth. "You don't have to bellow," he declared. "I can hear you."

Festus appeared in the doorway, his mouth curved in a familiar grin. Behind him, Matt ducked low to keep the child on his shoulders from hitting the frame. He was hatless, his son's hands clutching generous locks of gray-brown curls like make-shift reins within the chubby fingers.

"Kitty!" he declared, his expressive face both pleased and startled. "Should you be out of bed?'

"She's fine, Matt," Doc assured him, and Kitty threw the physician a look. As she figured, he'd only been mother-henning her earlier – mostly, anyway. "Just irritating. Why don't you three stop botherin' me and head home?" But the warm twinkle in his eye belied his rough words. "I'll be around for lunch tomorrow, if anybody's cookin'."

"You just come on by, Curly," Kitty said, spirits lifted by the return of her two men and the thought of going home with them. "I'll make some of that steak stew you like."

"By golly, I will."

"Marshal," Lane greeted, his voice firm, but softened in respect. "I was just telling Mrs. Dillon and Doctor Adams here that since you seem to have found a temporary man I'll head on back toward Pueblo."

Lane's comment wiped the easy smile from Matt's lips. He darted an uneasy glance toward Kitty. "Oh. Uh, sure."

"I'll send a telegram to let them know about the change in plans. Be glad to get home, anyway. I miss the mountains." He grinned. "Guess we're comfortable with whatever's home, huh?" Turning to Kitty, he asked, "Is your home originally Dodge, Mrs. Dillon?"

"Oh, no," she said. "I'm from New Orleans. And even if I weren't, I couldn't be from Dodge, since it's only been a town a couple of decades."

"Guess that's true enough," Lane agreed.

"Besides," she smiled, catching her husband's gaze and holding it, "my mother used to say 'home is where the heart is'." It was one of the few memories she had of the woman who had died so young.

Something flickered behind Matt's clear blue eyes, something that resembled an intriguing mixture of joy and regret. She longed to be alone with him, to ask him what he was thinking, what he knew that she didn't. But Lane's next words snapped her attention back to him.

"That's a good way of thinkin', ma'am," the deputy said. "Maybe you won't miss the prairie too much, then."

Miss the prairie? "What do you – "

"I guess I should explain," Matt offered, wincing as he swung Sam down to the floor where the child immediately resumed his experiments with the newly-acquired skill of walking.

"I guess," Doc agreed with a nod, eyes suddenly sharp and narrowed.

With a chagrined flush, Lane shifted nervously. "I'm sorry, Marshal. I thought that – " He glanced at Kitty. "I sure didn't mean to – "

"It's all right," Matt assured him. All right? Kitty reckoned he was a bit premature in that assessment.

The broad shoulders lifted in a deep breath, then fell. "I guess you've already figured out that I've recommended Newly as the new marshal of this territory," he told them.

She nodded. "Newly's a good man," she said, almost smiling at the flash of relief on the handsome face. Almost. He still had a lot of talking to do.

"He shore nuff is," Festus agreed, teeth showing through his scraggly beard. Kitty had almost forgotten the other deputy was there. She was glad he seemed to accept the situation without resentment – not that she'd ever figure Festus to begrudge his friends anyway.

"Hold on," Doc interrupted impatiently. "When I asked you if you had resigned, you said 'yes and no.' If Newly's replacing you, that sounds like a 'yes' to me."

"I did send in my resignation," Matt confirmed.

"But?" Kitty asked, knowing there must be more to it.

"But," Lane interjected, a touch of awe in his voice, "the attorney general wouldn't accept it."

Doc frowned and sputtered, "He can't do that, can he? You have the years."

"It's not exactly that he didn't accept it," Matt told them. "It's more like he – " She saw the hesitation in his eyes as he looked up. Flicking his thumb toward the door he said, "Doc, uh, don't you figure maybe Deputy Lane might be interested in a drink?"

The physician frowned. "What?" But comprehension dawned quickly enough, and he stepped forward, tugging at Lane's sleeve as he passed. "Come on, son. I'll buy you a beer at the Long Branch."

"Oh, sure," Lane agreed, shoving his hat back on.

The two started toward the door, but stopped when they heard the pointed cough. Kitty hid a smile at Festus' naked hint.

Without the time to allow the development of their usual banter, Doc just shook his head. "Well, what are you waitin' for? I'll buy you one, too."

"Well, now, thet's rite good of ya', Doc. 'Sides, I figger ol' Matthew mite need hisseff some privit-like time with Miz Kitty – "

"Why don't you just hush?" Adams scolded, grabbing his arm and shuffling him out. "You haven't got the sense – "

The door closed behind them, leaving her staring up at her husband, unsure about what awaited them, and still angry – and a little hurt – with him for not telling her. She glanced around to see that Sam had plopped himself down in the midst of a set of blocks Doc kept handy for just such visits. The little boy would probably keep busy another few minutes, anyway. Long enough, perhaps, to find out what on earth was going on.

"Kitty, I'm sorry I didn't – "

She held up a hand to stop him. "You had your reasons, I know, Matt. And I'm sure they were good. It's just a little hard to find out your husband is doing something as – as monumental as giving up a job that was so important for twenty years he couldn't – " She stopped, regretting the words as soon as she saw the guilt cloud his blue eyes again.

Damn it. She had promised herself she wouldn't bring that up. It didn't matter anymore. "I didn't mean – "

A large, but gentle hand closed around her arm. "Kitty, I'm sorry. I was going to tell you as soon as Newly and I got back, but then Lane was there – and Butcher Cole. I just didn't have the chance."

All true, she had to acknowledge. Softening, she nodded, gripping his hard biceps automatically, not remembering about the bullet wound until his quick, involuntary hiss reminded her, and she jerked her hand away. "Oh, Matt, I'm sorry."

He shook his head and smiled, but the expression remained strained. "It's okay."

"Really, Matt," she urged, "I'm sorry about – about the other, too. I didn't mean to – well, I know you would have told me if you could."

"I _have_ resigned, Kitty, but – there's something else. Something we need to talk about."

Something else. Something besides resigning? Wasn't that enough? Her mind raced back to Lane's comment. _ "Maybe you won't miss the prairie too much, then."_

And suddenly, she realized.

"Kitty?" he asked abruptly, his hands going to her shoulders. "Are you feeling okay? You're not going to faint again, are you?"

She knew her face must have reflected the shock of comprehension. "I'm fine," she assured him softly.

He frowned doubtfully and gestured to Doc's chair. "Why don't you sit down?"

"I don't need to," she insisted, anxious for him to continue.

But a closer look showed her that, even though she didn't need to sit down, Matt apparently did. A thin line of sweat beaded on his forehead, his cheeks were pale under the deeply-burned tan.

"On second thought," she decided, "maybe I do." She took his hand, alarmed that it was slightly clammy. "Let's sit on the bed."

"Bed?" His brow rose and he leered at her, a move that helped dispel the nudge of worry. If he could flirt with her, he was okay. Just tired, and – of course – he _had_ been shot.

"Just to talk, Mister," she teased back easily.

He pressed his lips together in mock disappointment.

"Look, Marshal Dillon, I've forgiven you for not telling me before about resigning. Don't push it."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed meekly – or as meekly as Matt Dillon could sound, anyway. "Not pushing it."

Sam ignored them as they passed his elaborate construction masterpiece, too focused on building a structure that might have been a miniature version of the Long Branch to bother with his parents. With a low groan Matt sank onto the bed, weariness visibly folding over his long body. Kitty considered just making him lie down and sleep and saving the talk for later. He sure looked as if he could use it. The circles under his eyes spoke of several restless nights, and she wondered if he had been fighting the nightmares that sometimes plagued him, that brought him shouting and sweating upright in bed, calling her name – or the names of men long dead by his own pistol. On those nights she wished she could relieve him of those haunting memories, but she knew they would follow him for the rest of his life, so she did what she could by holding him and offering him more pleasant distractions.

"Matt," she began, determined to make him level with her. "Are you all right?"

His head came up quickly, his eyes questioning. "What?"

"Are you all right?" she repeated, her tone insisting that he be honest about that, for once.

"Well, sure, Kitty. I thought you were the one not feeling well." He grinned a little, and laid his hand across her stomach. "Although I guess I'm partly to blame for that."

"I'm serious, Matt. You look – well, you don't look so hot. "

His brow rose, and he feigned insult. "Well, thanks."

"You know what I mean. You're pale, you're sweating, and you look like you haven't slept in a week."

"Oh." Sheepishly, he dropped his gaze from hers. "Well, maybe I understated a bit when I told Doc that Cole just winged me," he admitted, rubbing gingerly at the wounded arm. She knew how much it took for him to admit to that. He looked back up at her, eyes sincere. "But it's not that bad, really, Kitty. I've had much worse."

God, didn't she know it.

"As for sleeping," he smiled disarmingly, "I've discovered it's hard to do without a certain beautiful, hot redhead in my arms."

"_I've_ discovered you don't do much sleeping when that redhead's in your arms," she countered, grateful for it. Still, she wasn't letting him off the hook completely. "Nightmares?" she guessed.

A shadow crossed his face, his voice hardened a bit. It was his defense against the turmoil of emotion the dreams brought. "I'm just tired, Kitty," he said. "It was a long trial and a long trip. And I'm just tired."

Years of experience had taught her to let it go when she heard that tone. Even now, as his wife, she knew when to push and when not to push. Satisfied that he was just hurting from the wound and tired from the trip, she let her right hand cup his jaw, silently telling him she understood. He relaxed slightly with her touch.

"You had something we needed to talk about?" she prompted gently. "What did you mean when you said the Attorney General didn't exactly _not_ accept your resignation?"

Blue eyes regarded her evenly, the intensity in them letting her know this was serious. "He offered me another job."

Surprised at first, she realized the announcement wasn't really unexpected. In fact, it seemed rather obvious when she thought about it. "Another job?"

"I told him no, but he was – well, he asked me to think it over."

A sudden fear clutched at her throat, a feat that it could be worse, that he could be placed in even greater danger.

"It would mean still wearing this badge," he told her, tapping the damnable bit of metal on his chest. "That's why – Kitty, I know what you've sacrificed for me. I won't do this if you don't want me to." Pain twisted his features just briefly before he conquered it, and she wasn't sure if it was emotional pain or physical pain – or both.

She started to tell him it was no sacrifice, but realized it had been, of course. A sacrifice she had willingly made, but a sacrifice, nonetheless.

"I thought he'd be glad to see me finally step down. I was once the youngest marshal; I figure now I'm probably the oldest."

Kitty raised an ironic brow. "Just because everyone else is dead."

Smiling ruefully, Matt agreed. "Most likely."

He sounded a little bewildered about the whole thing, but Kitty wasn't surprised at all. Whatever the offer was, it surely involved him still working for the marshal's service. Of course the Attorney General would want to hang on to Matt Dillon tooth and nail if he could. She considered Lane's description. To many people, he really was a legend. How could they let a legend go?

Warily, she asked, "What's the job?"

"We could forget it all and just start that ranch," he hedged.

"What's the job?"

He sucked in a breath and finally told her. "The War Department is starting a program to prepare new marshals, and he wants me to – "

Thank God. Relief coursed through her body. "He wants you to help train them," she finished for him, her throat relaxing. A training program. So other men could go out and get shot instead of Matt. Well, he had paid his dues. Thank God.

But Matt was wincing. "Actually, it's a little more than that. He, uh, he wants me to – "

"To what?" she prompted, afraid again.

"To run it," he said simply.

Kitty stared, wide-eyed, at him. "Run it? For the territory?"

His lips pressed together hard for a second. Then he cocked his jaw and shrugged. "For the country."

For the country? For the entire United States of America?

She felt her mouth drop, amazed – even knowing how unique Matt was in his talent – that he would be in charge of a national program. "For the country," she repeated, still slightly bemused. Then, as the notion rooted itself into her mind, she said it again, this time with confident acceptance. "For the country."

But of course. Hell, who on earth would be better to train marshals than the best of them all? With a firm nod, she asked, "When do you start, Marshal Dillon?"

Swallowing, he leaned forward to take both her hands in his. "Like I said, I told the Attorney General I'd think on it – and I'd have to ask my wife."

My wife.

Even though they'd been married for almost a year, she still felt that thrill dash through her heart when she heard him use those words, words she had never really believed she would ever hear. Words that were now almost as precious as the other words he whispered to her late at night when he drew her to him and entwined their bodies in the most intimate of dances.

"Kitty?"

She lifted her head, pushing the distracting vision to the back of her mind. If she let it take over now it would be quite some time before the conversation was finished. Here was a chance for Matt to remain a marshal, for him to do the job he had devoted his life to – and at the same time a chance for her to live a little more normally, not waiting for that dreadful moment she had feared so many years. Could fate have dealt them any better hand?

"When do you start?" she asked again, her voice warm with pride and support.

His lips turned up in a smile at the implication. "Don't you want to know more about the job?"

But she shook her head. "It doesn't matter. If it's what you want – "

"Is it what _you_ want, Kitty? Because if it's not – "

"If it's what you want, Matt, it's what I want."

She saw his jaw muscles clench. "Kitty," he whispered, voice rough. "Are you sure? I just want you to be happy. I just want – "

Sliding her hand to cup his cheek, she leaned forward to brush his lips with hers. "I am happy, Matt. I've never been happier than I am right now."

His mouth accepted her kiss, moving on her lips in a gesture that began lovingly and sweetly, but that instantly exploded into a fire of desire, shooting to her core. He had been gone for almost two weeks, and she ached to be with him again. She forgot about where they were, about their child playing innocently in the next room. Her body took over as his mouth pressed more firmly, opening her lips so that his tongue could ease inside.

His muscles tensed, as if he thought about pushing her away, but that ephemeral move gave way to the sensations that quickly engulfed them. Lying back on the bed, he pulled her on top of him, fitting their hips together. She moaned his name.

His breath came faster. She heard his heart pounding beneath her ear as she laid her head on his chest. "Kitty, we need to stop," he whispered hoarsely, making no move whatsoever to do anything about it.

"Okay," she gasped, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, anxious to run her lips over his bare skin.

He groaned, his fingers wrapping around her arms as if to pull her off, but instead, he held her firmly and arched his hips so that she could feel him swell against her. "Kitty."

"We shouldn't be – doing this – here," she managed to choke out, even as his large hands caressed her buttocks, pressed her harder into him.

"No," he agreed, tugging at the buttons down the back of her dress.

"Sam's in the next room," she reminded him, her tongue trailing across the strong planes of his chest while her hands pushed the shirt away from his body.

"Uh huh." Smoothly, he turned her on the bed so that he knelt between her thighs, hands pushing up her skirts, his earlier fatigue apparently forgotten.

"And Doc could come back any minute." Her hands slid down his stomach and beneath the waistband of his pants to close over the burning shaft, sighing with pleasure when he pulsed hard in her grasp.

"Kitty," he groaned, thrusting into her grip. "D-don't – I can't – "

But she was almost too far gone to listen, wanting nothing more than to open to him, to feel him fill her again and again. Nothing could stop them now. Nothing could keep them from satisfying the overwhelming need that swept them.

Nothing except the jarring squeal of their eleven-month-old child.

"Papa!" Sam's call from the other room cut through the heat of desire enough to bring them back to semi-sanity.

With a rare, but fierce, expletive, Matt rolled off her and fell back on the bed. Kitty sat up, gasping, her heart racing, her body surging.

"Matt Dillon!" she tried to scold, but in reality she had barely kept in her own snap of profanity.

"Oh, God," he groaned, eyes closed tightly.

She winced as her gaze ran down his body and saw the urgent need straining against his pants. "That's gotta be uncomfortable," she sympathized. "And hard to take care of now."

Teeth gritted, breath coming fast, he opened his eyes and looked down at himself ruefully. "Hard is the operative word," he muttered. "And I thought I _was_ taking care of it."

"I thought_ I_ was taking care of it," she amended, just as ruefully.

Dragging in a gulp of air, Matt closed his eyes in an attempt to calm his body. Wincing in failure, he opened them again and looked toward his child, who had toddled into the doorway. "Son," he declared, "we've got to work on your timing."

"Nap, Papa?" the boy observed, seeing his father on the bed.

Kitty laughed. "That's right. Papa's taking a nap."

"No nap," Sam frowned, then smiled again with innocent glee. "Bocks, Papa. See bocks."

Matt raised his head and glance past the partially open door at the stacks of blocks beyond. "He wants to show us the blocks," he declared sarcastically to Kitty.

"Yes."

But after a moment, he let a pained grin touch his lips. "Yes, Sam. I saw the blocks. They look real fine. Maybe you're gonna be an architect."

Pleased at that thought, Kitty smiled at her husband. It was probably rare for an architect to be in a gun battle in the middle of the street. Sam seemed satisfied with the response, toddling back into the outer room to resume his construction.

Resisting the urge to place a hand on his chest, knowing that would counteract any attempt at recovery, she said, "Is it too much to hope that there's no shooting at each other?"

"What?"

"When you're training people," she clarified.

"There's shooting, but only at targets," he assured her, rolling onto his side.

"Targets don't usually shoot back, do they?"

An understanding smile curved his lips. "No, Kitty, they don't."

"Matt," she asked, giving him another chance to get out of the decision. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?"

"I'm sure, Kitty. It's time. It's time for me, and it's time for Newly." His voice fell almost to a whisper as he drew her close again, brushing his lips with hers. "And it's time for you."

Reluctantly, she sighed, feeling her body start to surge again against his unabated arousal. "As much as I hate to say it, you'd better stop that. It's how we got started before."

He kissed her once more before pulling away. "Kitty, there's something else you need to know about the job. It means we'll have to – "

"Well, hello there, Sam!"

Kitty felt the unexpected greeting shoot through her, propel her from Matt's grasp and off the bed as if she had gunpowder under her. She stood panting as Doc's familiar shuffle stopped while he talked with her little boy in the outer office.

Hastily, she ran her hands over her body, checked her clothes, relieved that Matt hadn't succeeded in unbuttoning her. Satisfied that she wasn't too disheveled, she looked at her husband and grimaced. Disheveled didn't even begin to describe him. His hair curled wildly over his eyes, his shirt hung half-off revealing a chest reddened from her fevered caresses, his pants – well, his pants failed miserably to hide the very obvious evidence of his continued excitement.

"You'd better stay in here," she told him. "At least until you can comb your hair and tuck in your shirt, and until – "

He nodded. "I'll be out in a minute," he said, voice strained.

"A _minute_?" she asked skeptically as she eyed the substantial bulge at his groin.

"I'll think about Mrs. Pry," he told her.

"That oughta do it," she agreed with a smirk.

Sam looked up, handing her a block as she pushed open the door. She accepted with lavish thanks. He seemed satisfied and turned back to building his metropolis.

Doc eyed her suspiciously as she entered. "You okay? You look a little flushed."

"You complained that I was pale before," she reminded. "Isn't this better?"

"Depends on why," he insisted.

"Well, I feel just fine."

"Matt go somewhere?"

"What?" she asked, knowing her tone fell well short of convincing.

"Matt Dillon. Big fellow. Hard to miss. He was in here when I left. I was wondering if he went somewhere."

"He – uh – he's lying down. He was a little shaky." That was the truth, although not all of it.

The physician jerked. "Is he feelin' bad? His arm bothering him? I told you he lost a lot of blood." He reached for his bag, but Kitty stepped between him and the door.

"He's okay, Doc. Just tired."

"But – "

"Why don't you check me out before we leave?" she suggested, knowing he'd be hard pressed to deny an actual voluntary exam.

"Well," he hesitated. "If you're sure he's okay – "

"I can't imagine why I fainted earlier," she began, effectively regaining his attention.

"What have you eaten today?" Doc asked, his expression telling her he already knew.

From years of experience, she realized it wouldn't do any good to try to elude him. "A half a piece of toast and some coffee," she confirmed, almost defiantly.

"How much coffee?" he pushed.

Frowning, she admitted, "Four sips."

"Uh huh. Kitty, you know you have to eat."

"Doc – "

"I'm serious. You're eating for – "

"Two. I know. Otherwise, am I okay?"

Reluctantly, he nodded.

Glancing over to the closed bedroom door and remembering how close she and Matt had come to making love a few minutes before, she asked, a little shyly, "Does that mean that – well – can I – we – that is, can Matt and I – "

"What?"

"Is it okay for us to – " She faltered, waiting for him to get it.

After a moment, his eyes widened, and then quickly narrowed. "Oh, for Heaven's sake. Is that all you think about – "

"Well, can we?" she pushed, her eagerness trumping her embarrassment.

He sighed and rubbed at his mustache. "Yes, I suppose, but make sure it's – "

"Nice and easy," she supplied sweetly.

He grunted. "I seem to recall giving those same instructions before without either of you payin' any attention to them."

"I promise."

He rolled his eyes and grunted again. "I'll leave some salve."

At that moment, Matt emerged from the back, looking reasonably intact, although his hair remained a little mussed, and he had missed the third button from the top on his shirt, giving a nice view of his broad chest. Kitty let her eyes drop to his pants, relieved to see no blatant display there. One look at Doc, however, let her know they had not fooled him a bit.

The big lawman blinked at the frown the older man plastered on him for no apparent reason. "What?"

But the physician just shook his head hopelessly. "Don't blame me if you end up with a passel of young'uns by the time you're fifty."

Matt's lips pressed tightly together in confusion and consternation, but Kitty just smiled and patted the older man's arm.

"Don't worry." Her eyes cut toward her husband. "I'll know who to blame."

The big man lifted his chin suspiciously. "Well, I'm not sure what I did, but I have a feeling I should just keep my mouth shut."

"And your pants," Doc added in a mumble that was remarkably clear.

"What?" He looked down self-consciously, confirming Doc's suspicions.

"Doc!" Kitty exclaimed.

"I'm gonna have to burn those sheets, now."

Crimson flushed across Matt's face at the doctor's pointed observation.

She placed her hand on her hips. "We didn't – " But the truth was, they came damn close. "Oh, you can believe what you want. Come on, Matt, let's go home."

The smile that crept to Doc's lips softened his grumbling. "Oh, listen, I know you didn't – well, at least I figured you wouldn't – for Pete's sake, I'm kidding, Kitty."

"Well – "

"You do take it easy, though. _Both_ of you." He turned to deliver a pointed, accusing glare at the marshal, who had the grace at least to blush and nod obediently. "And I mean that."

Swinging Sam up into his arms, Matt rolled his eyes.

"Bye, bye, G'pa," the child called out, waving toward his adopted grandfather.

Kitty watched the physician try to hide the sudden well of tears and noticed a telling exchange between the older man and Matt. "Doc?" she asked, perplexed.

Matt stared at the doctor for a long minute. "Zeke?" he asked simply.

Doc nodded, a sad smile touching his lips.

The two men regarded each other silently until Matt broke the moment and nodded once. "We'll see you tomorrow, Doc," he said, his hand catching her elbow and guiding her toward the door.

Adams nodded and blinked at them, reaching high up to tousle Sam's curls. "Tomorrow." Then he smiled again. "Don't forget tonight, though. Nice and easy."

Despite her mounting anxiety, Kitty smiled at the old man's teasing. Even Matt allowed himself an embarrassed smirk when Adams shoved a jar of salve into his hand.

But she realized in that moment that it didn't matter. Doc knew as much as she did, perhaps more. "No," she said, placing a hand on Matt's chest. Before we – " Her eyes darted to Doc. "Before – you were going to tell me the rest of your news."

Matt's arm slid around her waist, tugging a little harder. "I'll tell you on the way home," he said.

Home. Shaking her head, she looked up into the handsome face of her cowboy, knowing already what that news was. The distant sound of her mother's voice returned to her.

She thought about all those times she had tried to leave Dodge City, all those failed attempts to get away from the dust and the guns and the unruliness, only to be drawn back – or brought back – by love. Love, of course, of Matt, but also love of that dusty, unruly town and its people.

"Where?" she asked simply.

"Kitty, if you want to stay here, if you want to stay home, I understand. I told you already that we can start that ranch – "

"And I told you, Cowboy, that home is where the heart is." Her hand pressed warmly against his chest, right over that big, generous heart. "And this is where I'll always be."

His jaw muscles worked hard, clenching and unclenching in an attempt to keep his emotions in check.

"Now," she smiled, "where?"

After a long beat, he let a tender smile touch his lips. With a quick glance toward Doc, he sighed and squared to look her straight in the eye. "Washington."

"D.C.?"

"D.C."

Washington, D.C.

Doc's bittersweet smile made her heart ache. She had meant what she said to Matt. And she would follow him to China, if that's where he was going. But that didn't mean she wouldn't grieve the separation from 21 years of her life. It was hard to believe; after all those other times leaving Dodge City, after all those times coming back, she was finally going for good.

But this time, she wouldn't be alone.

**TBC**


	19. Neglected

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Nineteen: Neglected**

POV: Matt

Spoilers: "Hostage!" (minor)

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

Matt Dillon groaned and fell back hard, his muscles suddenly leaden and uncooperative, his breath heaving from him, his energy exhausted. He had hung on as long as he could, but the forces that pounded his body proved too powerful to overcome, and now he lay, unmoving, arms flung out to his side, legs stretched uselessly. If one of his many enemies had chosen that instant to attack him, he doubted he had the strength even to raise his head in acknowledgement of the assailant. At that moment, the formidable U.S. marshal was helpless, vulnerable, powerless.

And he had gotten himself into that condition with perfect willingness – eagerness, even.

A soft moan drifted from beside him, a gentle hand slid across his ribs to rest at the center of his chest. He envisioned it bouncing with the hard pounding of his heart. Her body turned to press against his side, her breasts burning into his skin, sparking the embers that still glowed despite the fire she had recently allowed him to extinguish inside her.

"Nice and easy," Doc had said, and Matt had tried. He really had tried, but the slow, sensuous burn that began their lovemaking had exploded into a conflagration that consumed him. At least he was comforted to know – judging from her heavy sigh and languid body – that Kitty had been just as consumed as he was.

Now, climbing up from the smoldering ruins, he mustered enough energy to twist his body, prop on one hand, and peer down at her. A contented smile curved her lips, and he couldn't resist leaning over to kiss them.

"Mmm," she murmured.

"Mmm? Is that all?"

"That's all you're gonna get from me, Cowboy."

"Yeah?"

"You wore me out."

His satisfaction faltered with the alarm that shot through him, jolting him from the haze of serenity. "Kitty, are you – "

Shaking her head, she opened her eyes long enough to roll them at him. "I'm fine, Matt. If you're gonna become a hovering mother hen until this baby is born – "

But he couldn't shake the seriousness of her health. "I mean it, Kitty. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Doctor Dillon," she scolded. "Better than fine. I just had a very big, very handsome – and _very _talented – man give me the most pleasure I've had since – "

She paused, and he smiled, prompting, "Since?"

"Since the last time that very big, very handsome, very talented man pleasured me."

"And that," he declared in between nibbles on her smooth skin, "was much too long ago."

Arching her neck to allow him better access, she murmured, "Much too long."

He clucked his tongue against his teeth. "Very neglectful of him."

"Very," she agreed. "How do you think he should make up for that neglect?"

"Hmm. Give me a few minutes to think."

Her hand strayed down his abdomen and lower, making him suck in a quick breath. "I do believe," she purred, "that you are already coming – _up_ – with something."

He moaned and grinned at the same time, nudging her onto her back so that he could lay his head on her shoulder and let his eyes close, his thoughts drifting pleasantly over the previous hour he had spent in her arms as her touch readied him again.

**XXXX**

It had taken him longer than he wanted to unhitch the horses and dutifully rub them down, the frustrating ache in his arm slowing him. But he had managed to complete the task in only a little more time than usual, while his redheaded incentive rocked their child to sleep and waited impatiently for him inside their house, just as eager for his touch as he was for hers.

Although Festus had offered to accompany them home from Dodge, he had politely refused the deputy's good intentions, a wise decision, because the way Kitty greeted him at the door was a sight meant for his gaze alone. Clothed only in a flimsy bit of black lace that revealed more than it hid, she let her eyes pierce him, draw him to her with not even a flick of a finger. His heart jerked against his rib cage, desire he had only partly managed to suppress in Doc's office surging through him and settling with an ache at the pit of his belly.

"Kathleen," he breathed, stepping toward her and letting his hands slide up her arms, his fingers almost trembling with the need to touch her. It had been much too long.

Trying to heed the physician's instructions, he had clamped down on the urge to sweep her into his embrace and take her right there, fast and hard – even though Kitty's steamy expression told him that would have been just fine with her. Instead, he bent to kiss her softly, his tongue sliding over her lips and into her mouth with measured tenderness. His hands pressed against her back, pulling her so that their bodies just grazed, the lace over her breasts brushing his shirt. But, in spite of his efforts, his arousal surged between them, pushing and pulsing against the slight roundness of her stomach.

"You sure are taking your time, Cowboy," she scolded gently, her own trembling fingers reaching up to unbutton his shirt and push inside, dancing over his bare chest.

"You keep doing that, I won't be for long," he admitted, swallowing a gasp as she grazed a flat nipple.

"Good."

Her hands made quick work of removing his shirt, then reached lower, a heated smile lifting her mouth as she pressed into the insistent ridge that strained against the material of his trousers. With a joint effort, they shucked the rest of his clothes, and soon he stood before her, his strong body bare except for the bandage Doc had wrapped around his arm. She looked him up and down, her eyes sparkling, their blatant admiration drawing a rare blush to his cheeks.

"My, my," she murmured, her gaze lingering at his groin. His cheeks flushed deeper crimson.

He didn't know how he was going to keep control much longer. With a single touch of his hand, he swept the bit of lace from her, bending his head to take the tip of a breast into his mouth, to suckle gently, to caress.

Gasping, she took his hand, urging him toward the bed. "No more taking your time."

Thank God.

But he tried anyway, still giving good faith effort to follow Doc's instructions. It sure as hell wasn't easy, though, not with her hands shoving him onto the mattress and roaming boldly over his body, rubbing and scratching, and squeezing, bringing him to the point of surrender then easing him back down.

His entire body was throbbing as he turned onto his side and nestled against her, then pressed forward almost hesitantly, aching for her, yearning to surge ahead and be surrounded by her. She reached between them, her fingers brushing over the satin-steel flesh, tearing the moan from his throat. With one leg wrapped over his hips, she guided him so that he was in position. Her own gasp followed his as he slid forward then paused to let her accommodate him.

"You don't have to be so careful, Matt," she assured him breathlessly.

Clenching his jaw, he reminded, "But Doc said – "

"Okay, look, Doc is about the last person I want to be talking about right now."

He smirked. "Don't want to get fussed at tomorrow."

"Is that worse than being fussed at tonight?"

He considered it for a moment until she let her body open for him, and he felt himself slide deeper into that delicious, overwhelming heat. "Oh, God," he groaned.

"You still worried about Doc?"

"Doc who?"

"Okay, then, Cowboy, why don't you remind me why I married you?"

"I thought it was because you loved me."

"Oh, yeah. That, too," she teased, then gasped as he moved again, letting his thickness slowly stretch her. "Oh, yeah," she groaned, not teasing at all anymore.

Sensation erupted through him, and he squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, struggling not to surrender to the almost overwhelming need to move.

"Matt?"

Opening his eyes, he saw Kitty watching him, concern darkening her lovely features. "You okay?"

If he weren't working so hard not to lose control right then, he would have laughed ironically. He certainly was okay – more than okay. "I'm fine, Kitty," he assured her hoarsely, then admitted, "Just trying to keep this from being over in about a minute and a half."

Her concern curved into a grin. "I have faith in you, Cowboy." Slowly, she pulled back until he slid from her body, a move that did little to help his situation.

"Kitty," he groaned.

Nudging him onto his back, she straddled his hips, her slender fingers curving around him and drawing him back to her.

"I'm ready, Matt," she breathed. "Please don't make me wait any longer." Her hands braced on his chest as she let her body sink onto him.

No waiting? He could certainly accommodate that request. Released by her appeal not to hold back, he joined them completely, grunting as she closed tightly around him. All thought of nice and easy melted as they strained against each other, caught up in an irreversible plunge toward the explosive culmination of their conflagration. Teeth gritted, he shook with the desperate effort to wait for her, grunting in relief when her wild contractions finally gripped him. His body let go then. The powerful surges pulled him deep into her over and over, until the final waves ripped the last of his energy from him, and he collapsed onto the bed as she collapsed into him.

**XXXX**

He lay in her arms, his head pillowed on her breasts, completely content as only her embrace allowed him to be. Her fingers had moved from his lower body to play through his hair, tugging gently at the wild curls.

After a few more minutes, he heard Kitty shift in the bed. "Matt?"

His chest rose only enough to draw in a quick breath for his response. "Hmm?"

"What's Washington like?"

"What?"

"Washington, D.C. What's it like?"

A frown of consternation furrowed his brow. "Kitty, you're asking about Washington now? After we – after – "

She grinned playfully. "Well, you've stimulated my – _interest_."

"Your _interest_, huh?"

"Oh yes." But her light tone melted into seriousness. "Really, Matt."

He sighed, contemplating how to answer. In truth, he had only visited the nation's capital a few times himself. Even though it was the seat of government, it had the reputation of being muddy and coarse. In the summer it was so stifling and riddled with Yellow Fever that only the poorest or most foolish of citizens remained.

"I guess it has its good points and bad points." He looked down, his heart still uncertain about what all this meant for her. "Kitty, are you sure about this? Dodge has been your home for so long – "

Her fingers caressed his cheek, the warmth of her touch sinking into his skin. "I told you, home is where the heart is. And you and Sam are my heart, Cowboy." Her hand dropped to her stomach. "And this little one."

He swallowed, his jaw hard with the effort to control his emotions. "I love you, Kathleen Dillon," he whispered, pulling her to him again, holding her tightly against his body, warm secure in his embrace.

"I love you," she returned, her voice trembling.

They lay still for a long moment, their hearts beating almost in unison, the aching void of the months apart now filled with that love. Finally, he felt her body tense slightly as she braced to sit beside him. That usually meant she wanted to talk, and he prepared himself for just about anything.

Sure enough, after a few seconds, she asked, "Matt?"

"Mmm?"

"What really happened to Newly's jaw?"

Damn.

He flinched and swallowed hard before he sucked in a deeper breath. Slowly, his eyes opened and he stared up at the ceiling for several long beats.

Newly's jaw? He fell off his horse. He got into a fight with a renegade Indian. He tried to kiss a saloon girl in Hays.

"I hit him," he admitted quietly, an uneasy, rueful smile curving his lips.

Shocked into sitting all the way, she stared down at him, obviously not expecting that answer. "_You_ hit him?"

He nodded regretfully.

"Why, what on earth for?"

Matt figured Kitty was wondering what unforeseeable event prompted him to haul off and slug his deputy. She knew the young man practically idolized Matt, a fact she sometimes liked to tease him about, much to his chagrin.

"Well," he said, putting on his best marshal's tone, "you know Newly's been askin' for it, loud and rowdy. I finally just got tired of all his carrying on."

"Matt," she scolded, not letting him divert her.

He sighed, and worked his jaw a second or two before he finally spoke. "I didn't mean to," he said, but figured his eyes gave away enough to let her know it was more than just a random accident.

Softening her voice, she asked, "What happened?"

His lips pressed together tightly, then he mumbled, "He tried to wake me up and – "

Her eyes widened in instant understanding. "Oh, Matt," she breathed, lying back down to rest her head on his shoulder.

Both relieved and regretful, he drew her close, knowing that their intimacy for the past twenty years had given her plenty of occasions to witness the nightmares he fought. He couldn't even begin to describe how soothing and secure her arms felt once he had broken away from the horrible, vivid dreams. Sometimes he felt like sharing them with her; other times, he just lay in her arms until his heart rate slowed enough to return to sleep. And yet other times he allowed his thoughts to be diverted by her lips and fingers, and they ended up loving the harsh memories away.

"Which one was it this time?"

He had told her enough in the past so that she knew that his worst dreams were filled with those torturous seconds before he was forced to kill a man in a gunfight. In a moment of weakness, he had admitted to her that after he killed his first man in a gunfight as Adam Kimbro's deputy, he had been physically ill. He learned quickly that that was part of the job, but it didn't make the battle any less sickening to him. But she also knew that he dreamed about _her_. He had confessed to it after Bonner, but later she told him that she had known years before, when he called out her name in the middle of the night, bolt upright in the bed and wide-eyed, sweat dripping off him, yelling for the unseen villain to spare her, to take him instead.

"Matt?"

But he shook his head, unable to share the torturous vision of her being ripped from him in the midst of heated lovemaking by a gunman's bullet. "Not yet, Kitty. Not yet."

"It's okay, Cowboy," she assured him, letting her hand rub across his bare chest. "You don't have to tell me, yet – or ever. Just know that I'm here. I'll always be here."

I'll always be here. Thank God he could really believe that, now. He took a quick breath, struggling for control.

"I love you, Kitty," he told her again, knowing he hadn't said it often enough over the years. "I want you to be happy, now. I want this to be what you want."

"It's what I want, Matt." Her eyes welled with tears, and he brushed the moisture with a thumb.

"I can't make up for twenty years. I won't try. I had made that commitment a long time ago, and I'm proud of what I've done. But it's time now for another commitment." A gentle smile lifted his expression. "You've been very patient with me, Miss Russell," he teased.

"I'll say," she mumbled through her tears.

"I figure that patience ought to be rewarded."

Tears gave way to seduction. "Really? And just how do you plan on rewarding me, Marshal Dillon?"

"Slowly," he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against hers. "Very, very slowly."

His mouth closed on hers, the heat re-igniting the fire inside him, but this time his body was ready for the nice and easy, ready for the slow burn. Even though pain shot through his wounded arm as he braced on his elbows, he held the position that let him take things gradually, teasing her, taunting her.

"Matt, please," she moaned, her fingernails clawing at his broad back. He wondered vaguely where they had put Doc's salve.

"Easy, Red," he soothed. "This time I'm following orders. This time, you'll just have to wait."

Her hips arched upward, but he reached down and held her steady with one hand, still supporting his weight with the other. He let his teeth nibble at her smooth jaw, slipping down her neck and across her breasts, pressing hot kisses onto the freckles she despised, but he adored. His lips burned as they glided over the generous swells.

Despite his earlier release, he felt his body fighting him, challenging the patience he had committed to. Pushing up with his arms, he gritted his teeth to slow the rush of urgency. As gradually as he could, he joined them again, jaw muscles working furiously to hold back the need to drive deep with a single thrust.

"Matt!" His name was wrenched from her throat in an agonized plea.

With a gasp, he felt her legs squeeze around his back and her body thrust up, completing their joining with a swift jerk that almost sent him over the edge. He groaned her name, sweat trailing down his face and chest with the effort to stem the imminent flood. It wouldn't be long now. He knew he couldn't resist the overwhelming pull. With just a few more –

"Kitty? Matt? You there?"

Something deep in his brain registered the call from outside, but he couldn't acknowledge it, had no strength to stop his body from its dedicated course.

Fortunately – or unfortunately – Kitty was able to respond. "Damn it!" She swore as she pulled away from him.

Trembling with the abrupt and painful interruption, he took in gasping breaths, not completely sure he could control the crushing need that gripped him. "Oh, God," he moaned miserably.

"Who the hell – "she snapped, scrambling off the bed. "Somebody's gonna pay for this."

"It's Doc!" came another call, and even through his desire the marshal realized that the older man was announcing his presence from a fair distance, no doubt giving them time to make themselves presentable on the chance they weren't already. Doc knew them well.

"Doc? What is he doing here?" Kitty asked as she grabbed a robe and shoved her arms into the sleeves. He figured she didn't really need an answer – or hoped she didn't, since he wasn't sure he was capable of coherent speech just yet. "Tomorrow. I invited him to dinner _tomorrow_." Then she paused and looked back at him, suddenly unsure. "Didn't I?"

Pressed to respond, he managed a nod, even though he really didn't remember when she had invited Doc to dinner. He'd had other things on his mind.

"I thought so," she said with a satisfied nod. "Not that I don't want to see him, but his timing stinks."

Still aching from the sudden disruption, Matt couldn't help but agree.

"Kitty! Matt!" Doc called again loudly. "Hello the house!"

Her hand on the doorknob, Kitty turned to Matt and smirked. "This is familiar."

"Too familiar," he grunted.

"Come on out," she told him, then, getting a good look at him, winced and added, "when you can."

As the door closed behind her, Matt sat on the side of the bed, steadying his breathing. If Doc had driven out from town, he would expect to visit a while at the least. A resigned sigh lifted his chest, and, with concerted effort, he tugged on his pants and shirt, letting the tails hang down over his waist, satisfied with remaining barefoot and vest-less. He found Doc and Kitty sitting at the table, two cups of coffee in front of them. The physician looked up when Matt appeared from the bedroom, his eyes squinting as he studied the tall lawman.

"Doc," Matt greeted, not bothering too much to hide his irritation.

The grayish-white head cocked wryly. "Well, Matt. Kitty said you might be a while. Said you were still in some discomfort."

Matt shot an alarmed look toward his wife.

"From your _arm_," she emphasized pointedly.

"Oh. Uh, yeah. That's right."

"Good thing I came by then."

"Yeah," he growled, the sarcasm heavy in his voice.

But Doc seemed oblivious to his annoyance. "I actually came to check on Kitty."

"I'm fine, Doc," Kitty declared.

"Me, too," Matt offered quickly – a little too quickly, opening the outside door in eager encouragement. "Well, guess that's what you needed to know, huh? So, see you tomorrow for supper."

"Matt!" Kitty scolded.

Doc's eyes widened. "You just said the arm was giving you trouble," he protested, then frowned. "I told you you weren't just 'winged'. You need to be in bed."

"Which is exactly where I _was_," Matt muttered ruefully.

"Were you? Well, good, good." Chuckling, he said, "I was afraid maybe you and Kitty – " But he stopped abruptly, glancing at Kitty's robe and then back to Matt's bedraggled appearance. After a moment, he shook his head in defeat. "Well, I should have known. I gave you three hours, for Pete's sake. What have you been doing with it?" He held up a hand. "Nevermind. I don't want to know."

Matt felt his own face tighten in exasperation. "Doc, what a man and woman do in their own home – "

"Better _your_ home," he quipped, "than _my _office."

Jaw cocked, Matt asked curtly, "Was there something you needed besides messing up my afternoon?"

"Matt – " Kitty laid a hand on his arm.

But Doc didn't snap back. Instead, he smiled at them, his countenance softening. "Yeah, Matt, there was. Sit down here with Kitty." He gestured at the table.

Immediately reading the change in Doc's tone, the marshal lowered his long frame into the chair, working to keep the grimace from his face as pain sliced through his wounded arm. Now that he wasn't distracted by Kitty, the damn thing really was bothering him. One glimpse of the older man's lifted brow let him know he hadn't quite succeeded in masking the discomfort.

"What can we do for you, Doc?" he asked sincerely, all bantering and irritation aside.

The doctor reached out with both hands, one resting on Kitty's arm, the other on Matt's. Surprised, the lawman exchanged glances with his wife, who gave him a bemused smile.

"I've want you to take that offer, Matt. I want you to take it and get away from a job that makes you risk your life every single day and makes those who love you risk their hearts."

It wasn't at all what Matt had expected his old friend to say, and he found himself at a complete loss for words. He suspected his mouth probably hung open in shock, but he couldn't register enough focus on that to close it. Instead, he stared at the physician and waited for him to continue.

"You owe it to Kitty and your children, but you also owe it to yourself. My God, Matt, how many bullets have I dug out of you over twenty-one years? How many more has someone else dug out when I wasn't around? There's only so much a man should be expected to give. You've given enough, Matt. Take this chance."

"Doc – " he began, but Adams shook his head to stop him.

His pale eyes regarded them both with a depth of love that drew a lump to Matt's throat. "You two are like my own. More like you really _are_ my own. I've watched you for a long time now. You were just raw kids at first. Two young people so full of energy and hope and dreams – and so full of each other that you couldn't see straight."

Matt opened his mouth to dispute the observations. He and Kitty had been discreet back then, hadn't they? But Doc held up a staying hand.

"You were careful, Matt, I know. But you can't hide that kind of love."

The marshal felt his face warm.

"I hate to burst your bubble, but everybody knew it."

Kitty erupted in a hearty laugh. "I don't guess I really figured we fooled anybody."

"Not with all that eyeballin'," Doc said, chuckling. "Anyway, like I was saying, I've watched you two for a long time. There have been lots of good times. There have been some tough times, too."

Matt swallowed, his mind bringing up unbidden memories of the worst of those tough times.

"But I think the best of times are before you now. Go after them, Matt."

Reluctantly, the marshal leaned back in the chair and smiled sadly at his very dear friend. "We _are_ going, Doc. Kitty wants me to take the job, so – so we're going."

The physician smiled and nodded, but his eyes were melancholy. "You'd better not even think about keeping those grandchildren to yourselves. I'll be comin' out from time to time to make sure you're spoilin' 'em properly."

"Oh, Doc," Kitty breathed, catching his hand in both of hers and kissing him on the cheek. In seconds, they were clinging to each other, her tears falling freely, his shedding carefully. Matt stood awkwardly, jaw clenched with the effort not to join them.

"Too bad that training center's not in Dodge," Kitty choked out between sobs. "That would be – just about perfect."

"Just about," Doc agreed, patting her on the back.

Matt watched them, the ubiquitous guilt pounding him again, guilt over all Kitty had sacrificed for so long, over what he had asked of her these twenty years. Would she be happy in Washington? Kitty was a versatile woman, independent and strong. He knew she would survive – even prosper – anywhere she chose.

But would she be _happy_?

A strange sensation played in his chest, tickling to life the beginnings of an idea.

Swiping at his nose noisily, Doc turned red eyes on Matt. "Well, that's all I came to say. Sorry if my – timing – was off." He swung a hand toward the marshal. "At least let me re-dress that arm before I leave."

"It's all right, Doc," Matt started to protest. After all, he had just bound the wound that morning. But a quick glance revealed a tell-tale fresh splotch of red staining the sleeve of his new shirt. Acquiescing to the physician's instructions while Kitty wiped her eyes, Matt stripped to the waist and settled back into a straight chair.

Clucking his tongue, Doc set about checking the torn flesh and muscle. Matt occasionally flinched as he hit a particularly tender spot. "How'd you get this thing so unraveled?" the doctor complained, the old grouch in his tone. "Looks like you've been wrestling a wildc – " He stopped and cocked an eyebrow toward Kitty, then rolled his eyes and grunted.

"How is he?" Kitty asked smoothly, face still splotched from crying.

"Well, he's just as stubborn as ever," Doc answered, then fixed her with a point glare. "And it seems no one in this house understands the concept of 'rest'."

But she just grinned back unapologetically.

With a final tie on the new bandage, Doc replaced his instruments and turned toward the door. "I'll head back to town. I'll re-dress it again tomorrow." Throwing another accusatory glance at them both, he admonished, "Try not to destroy it completely between now and then."

"No promises," Kitty smirked.

Doc grunted. "I'll be back for dinner tomorrow, and I don't expect to be delayed because you two can't keep your hands off each other."

Grinning, and over any embarrassment, Matt called after him. "See you at five, Doc. And Doc?"

Adams looked back from the front yard.

"Thanks."

His face kind and soft, their dear, old friend gave them his trademark blink and closed-mouth smile that conveyed a much deeper message than just goodbye.

When they were alone again, Matt laid his hands on Kitty's shoulders. "Did you mean that, Kitty?" he asked softly.

"Mean what?"

"That you'd rather stay here."

"What are you talking about?"

"You told Doc it would be almost perfect if the training center was in Dodge."

Leaning into him, her hand pressing against his chest, she shook her head. "I was just trying to make Doc feel better. I've already told you, home is where – "

"I know." But would she be happy?

Glancing at the mantle clock, he realized Sam would most certainly be waking soon. Not much time. "Let's talk about it later," he suggested, gathering Kitty in his arms. "Now, where were we?"

"Well, let's see" she breathed, sliding her hands up under his shirt to run her nails over his broad back. "I seem to recall something about neglect and trying to make up for it."

Chills ran over his flesh in anticipation. "Ah."

"Matt?" One hand slipped lower, behind the waistband of his trousers to rest against a firm hip.

"Hmm?" he asked absently,

"I'm feeling neglected again."

His lips brushed her ear, blowing gently across it. "Really?"

"Umm hmm."

"Well," he murmured, sweeping her into his arms and smiling at the sheer delight on her face. "We can't have you feeling neglected. We'll just have to see what we can do about that."

And he was true to his word. By the time Sam awakened from his nap, Matt didn't figure Kitty could have named one tiny spot on her body that was the least bit neglected.

**TBC**


	20. He Who Hesitates

It's been a while, I know. RL is all I can say. I had planned for this to be the last chapter with the exception of a brief epilogue, but it got out of hand – so I've divided it into two chapters, the second of which is still being edited. Since we are in the resolution stages of the story, it's probably not too exciting. Still, I hope you enjoy it. I will work hard to get Chapter 21 out in a more timely fashion. (I've probably said that before, though, huh?)

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Twenty: He Who Hesitates**

POV: Matt

Spoilers: "Hostage!"

Rating: PG-13 (Teen)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

**XXXX**

Matt Dillon watched as his wife stared glumly from the window of their hotel room out across the muddy streets of Washington. All the time they had been there she had not said a word to him about being unhappy, but he could read it in every line of her body. Of course, part of it could be her condition. Despite his constant and sincere assurances that she was still just as beautiful as always, she saw only an expanding waistline and swollen ankles. Her usual outgoing sparkle had suffered, as well. Granted, she had mingled expertly with society, had filled her role with ease, but the twinkle in those blue eyes appeared only rarely these days. It was just one more clue that she was miserable. And he had made her that way by dragging her halfway across the country, a thousand miles from home.

"Oh, Kitty," he breathed. "I am so sorry."

"What?" She turned from the window, a sad, questioning smile on her face.

"I said that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for bringing you here. I'm sorry for making you leave Dodge. I just wanted you to be happy – and safe. I thought – "

Her smile grew more knowing. "But I'm not, am I? It's just as dangerous in Washington as it was in Dodge. They'll find us. How could they not find Matt Dillon?"

His gut tightened at her words. "Kitty, what can I do to – "

But before he could finish, the door of their room burst open, a sudden swirl of dust and dirt that should not have been there surrounding the weather-beaten forms of Jude and Virgil Bonner. Kitty screamed, falling back against the wall.

"How the hell can you be here?" Matt yelled, hand already on his gun, trying frantically to drag the iron up to fire at the vicious dog soldiers, but he couldn't move his right arm, couldn't flex his fingers at all. He looked down. The ugly scar that slashed across his forearm glared at him, angry and red, as if the injury were newly made. Groaning, he tried to throw himself toward them, but pain exploded in his bad knee, dropping him to the floor.

The murderous brothers lunged forward, malevolent sneers on their faces, ignoring Matt entirely and focusing on Kitty. She called out his name, pleaded for him to help her. Grimacing fiercely against the searing pain, he tried to claw across the floor, yelling out desperately as they dragged her down and ravaged her again.

"Let her go, you bastards!"

But they continued, teeth bared in evil glee as they violated her right in front of him, punching and biting and tearing, her swollen stomach, ripe with his child, rippling as they brutalized the baby and her. Amid the horror, Kitty's eyes found his, begged him to save her, but he could only watch helplessly, his heart torn from his chest in sheer anguish.

"Kitty! I'm sorry! Oh, God! I'm sorry!"

"Matt!" she called out frantically.

"I'm sorry!"

"Matt!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Matt!"

His eyes flew open, staring into the blackness of the room, the sounds of her screams still echoing in his ears. "Kitty!" he choked.

"I'm here, Matt," came the answer, calm and soothing, not frantic or desperate at all.

Her hands caressed his shoulders and neck, reaching up to run gently across his face. Slowly, he became aware that he sat in their bed, trembling and gasping for breath, the covers wrapped around his legs, his right knee throbbing, his union suit drenched with sweat.

Thank God.

In the dim light provided by the approaching dawn, he could see her face, unmarred and lovely as always. Unable to keep himself from the action, he twisted and pulled her to him. She let him hold her as long as he needed to, let him press kisses along her jaw and over her lips, let him bend to lay his ear over her heart, to convince himself she was alive and well, let him spread his hand over the slight swell of her stomach. Finally, the keen pain from the nightmare began to dull, leaving only a deep ache in his chest. As his embrace loosened, she sat back and looked at him.

"You okay?" she asked quietly, her palm cradling his cheek, her thumb brushing his lips.

He managed a nod, flexing the fingers of his right hand, relieved to find that they worked just fine.

"That was a good one, huh?"

Another nod, curt and silent.

"Bonner?" she guessed.

His face darkened as it always did with the vile name. He wanted to tell her she never had to say that name again, wanted to make it so she didn't even need to think it.

She caught his face in both her hands, turned it to look directly at her. "Listen to me, Matt Dillon. It was just a dream. What happened then is long behind us. Bonner is dead. He can't hurt me – us – anymore."

There's where she was wrong, though. Jude Bonner hurt Matt Dillon every time he thought about not only his miserable failure to protect Kitty, but also his role in causing the attack in the first place. And no assurances from his wife could ever fully absolve him of the guilt he would take to his grave.

But it wouldn't do her any good to know that, so he nodded again and forced a weak smile to his lips. "Yeah," he breathed, lifting a shaking hand to wipe the perspiration from his eyes.

"I mean it, Matt." Her eyes held his with intensity, and he was again struck by the power of her love for him.

"I know," he whispered. "I'm okay."

Although her expression remained doubtful, she let him by with the ruse. "It's way too early to be awake," she noted, even though her face was becoming more visible with the sunrise. "Is there something I can do to – help you go back to sleep?"

Her hands brushed over his chest; her lips followed. Although still shaken, he couldn't refuse such an offer and followed her down, her arms cradling him first with comfort, then with a passion that eventually wiped out the torturous thoughts – at least for the rest of the night.

**XXXX**

Morning brought cleansing freshness to the air, drifting across his face and stirring his hair until he woke. A leisurely glance out the window drew a quick double-take as he realized the sun had risen hours before, and there he was sleeping half the day away. It was the first time in months he had awakened after dawn.

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he winced at the pain that clenched his knee, and pushed the covers from his bare body, remembering that Kitty had disposed of his union suit in the midst of their passion. His first item for the day was to get into town and finish the paperwork that would complete Newly's appointment. The next item – He laughed ironically. His next item was to find a new job.

He pushed up from the bed, irritated with the stiff knee, but pleased that there was only a twinge of pain in his bicep now. It had been one week since Butcher Cole tried to kill him, one week since his decision to resign became common knowledge, and one week since he had sent a personal letter – not a telegram – to the Attorney General refusing the offer.

One week with no answer to that letter. One week to ponder over what exactly he was going to do. One week of wondering how to tell Kitty that he was unemployed. As much as she had always wanted him to give up the badge, he figured she might not be so keen on having a loafer of a husband

He smiled at the thought, knowing she'd rather have him loafing than serving as target practice for every outlaw that came around. He didn't regret the decision. Dreams like the one that had haunted him a few hours before had convinced him it was the right decision. In fact, there had been few things in his life Matt Dillon regretted. Hadn't he told Newly O'Brien only a week before that if a man lived by regrets, he wouldn't ever risk anything?

Still, there was one regret. One overwhelming regret.

He regretted Hethe hurt that he had caused Kitty throughout the past twenty years. And he was damned if he was going to make the same mistake again. He would just do what he'd planned in the first place and get that ranch Kitty never thought he'd get. Surely she would be happy about that, after all those years of wanting him to give up the badge. But that wasn't it. The fact that he'd made the decision without her was the point – and a point of contention it would most certainly be. Perhaps that was why he had put off telling her.

The delighted giggles of his son broke through the musings and enticed a smile to his lips. Beyond the close door of the bedroom, muted clangs of pots and pans danced with the uplifted, happy voices of his family. Chest rising in satisfaction, he drew on his trousers, not worrying about the sweat-stained union suit that lay crumpled in the corner. Shrugging into a worn, blue shirt, he stepped into the warmth of the next room, smiling as he saw Sam, now much more secure with his walking talent, toddling as quickly as his legs could carry him from chair to table to chair to china cabinet and back, Kitty's encouragement following him with each leg of his journey.

"I think he's ready for the hundred yard dash at the spring fair," Matt declared.

He was rewarded with a sudden smile from his wife, who abandoned her cooking to greet him with a deep, loving kiss. "Morning, Cowboy," she murmured against his lips.

His answer was simply to kiss her back.

"Papa! Cheepyhed!"

Matt laughed and swung the child up into his arms, enjoying the belly laugh that action provoked. "Yes, your Papa's a sleepyhead, Sam. Why did you let Mama keep me up so late last night?"

But the child wasn't paying any attention anymore. Instead, he squirmed in his father's strong arms, wanting to resume his game with the furniture. Obligingly, Matt bent to return him to the floor, barely letting him go before the boy was off and running.

"Are _you_ sorry that Mama kept you up so late last night?" Kitty asked, eyebrow arched.

"Did I say I was sorry?"

"Well – "

His arms slid around her, tugged her against him. Her hands rubbed down his back and over his hips. He felt her linger at his rear, then grinned as she pulled back and looked up at him in surprise.

"Missing something?" she asked slyly.

"My union suit wasn't exactly clean," he explained, trying to give her that innocent look that very rarely worked.

"Oh. And you don't have any other underwear?"

"Well, if you really want me to – "

"No!" she said, a little too quickly, then smiled seductively. "Not at all. This suits me just fine." She pinched him.

"Ouch!" he protested.

"Less in the way," she noted, her hands moving from back to front, pressing against the sensitive area that was now protected by only a single layer of clothing.

"Kitty, you'd better not start something unless you are prepared to finish it."

"Ooo. Mighty bold words, Marshal. What makes you think I _can't_ finish it?"

Twenty years of experience gave him the instant answer, and he smiled. "Absolutely nothing."

As her fingers played over the tightening material, he caught his breath, wondering if he was going to accomplish anything at all that day besides taking her back to bed. He decided that wasn't such a bad goal.

"You are a wicked one, Kathleen Dillon."

"And?"

"And I'm awful glad about that." He bent to press his mouth to hers, pulling her against him. But the conscience that had nagged at him all week prodded once more, and he decided he had been a coward long enough. Reluctantly, he lifted his lips from hers. "Kitty, there's something I need to tell you."

Her arms tightened around his neck, and she pressed her breasts into him. "Tell me later," she murmured, reaching up on tiptoes so that her mouth met his again.

For just a moment, he allowed himself to surrender to her touch, to her heat, and to her taste. But she quickly overwhelmed him, shattering his resolve. Clutching her to him, he lifted her from the ground so that her body rested completely against his, groaning as her weight pushed heavily into his swollen need.

"Later," he gasped, his surrender now unconditional.

"_Much_ later," Kitty amended, hanging on.

A sudden jingle of horses and wagons from outside shattered their negotiations, the sound close enough to mean they were coming to their house and not just passing by. Matt grunted in irritation, his hope for a little after-breakfast loving scattering with the growing noise.

"For Heaven's sake," Kitty breathed, her own frustration audible.

Matt's mind conjured up a stronger comment, but he kept it to himself, mindful of Sam playing around them. Sighing, he stepped to the window and eased the curtain aside to look out. To his astonishment, he saw that a large group of at least two dozen citizens was gathered in his front yard, including some of the most prominent: Doc Adams, Bodkin from the bank, Dobie from the hotel, Jonas from the general store, Percy Crump, Moss Grimmick, Hannah, Burke, even sour old Edsel Pry.

"Who is it?" Kitty asked, rescuing their breakfast before it burned.

"Half of Dodge," he mused.

"What?" She put the pan down again and hurried over to him. "My goodness!" she exclaimed at the sight.

"Yeah." Realizing abruptly that he was in his bare feet, he said, "Can you meet them while I get on my boots?"

"Just your boots?" she teased, but he just smirked at her.

A few seconds later, Matt sat on the side of their bed, tugging his left boot on, stomping firmly on the floor to shove his foot all the way in. Beyond the bedroom door Kitty greeted their unexpected visitors.

"Well, hello," he heard her say, surprise clear in her tone.

The cultured voice of Mr. Bodkin, the bank owner, answered. "Miss – I mean, Mrs. Dillon," Bodkin greeted.

"Mister Bodkin," she returned courteously, but Matt sensed the underlying curiosity.

"Is the Marshal here, as well?" Bodkin asked, the frown evident even through his tone.

"He is, but he's – uh – "

"If he's still recovering from his wound, I understand, but we had an issue we wished to discuss with him. With both of you."

"Well," Kitty allowed, "he _is_ recovering."

A chuckle shook Matt's shoulders. He was recovering, all right, but not necessarily from his wound. Knowing he still looked suspiciously disheveled, the marshal decided he'd better save Kitty the trouble of making up something ridiculous. Running a hand through his uncooperative waves, he emerged from the bedroom to see the prominent citizens gathered in his parlor, their eyes widening at his entrance.

Hannah's knowing smirk brought a flush to his cheeks. "Sorry to – interrupt, Marshal," she said, not really sounding sorry at all.

"Hannah." He quickly pulled his gaze from her. "Mister Bodkin," he greeted as casually as he could, as if they were at the bank. "Mister Dobie. Mister Jonas."

He smiled slightly as he saw Festus crouched in the corner, helping Sam stack blocks. It was quite possible that Sam recognized the colorful ABCs that decorated them better than his overgrown playmate.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, more than a little wary about their purpose. The last time half the town had shown up at his door they had thrown Kitty and him a belated shivery – and he had ended up half frozen in Silver Creek, wearing only his trousers. Of course, when he finally managed to shiver his way back home, Kitty had warmed him up right fast –

Swallowing, he forced his thoughts back to the present, his body still too sensitive from her earlier touch to risk tempting it with heated memories.

Clearing his throat, Mr. Dobie nodded toward him. "Marshal, we're terribly sorry to rouse you from your sick bed. I had thought your wound was not so dire as to keep you invalided for – "

"No, no. I'm fine. Just winged."

Doc grunted loudly, and Matt swung a glare at him, but the physician merely returned the glare, plainly refusing to take back his grunt.

Allowing Adams his valid point, Matt forced a bemused smile to his lips. "This looks like a citizen group," he said, then half-smiled. "Or a lynch mob."

Dobie looked mildly scandalized. "Marshal, I assure you, we aren't – "

"He's joking, for land's sakes," Hannah interrupted, rolling her eyes.

Resuming his duty as group spokesman, Bodkin stepped forward. "I'll get right to the point."

Matt almost commented that it was too late for that.

"Marshal, we have been considering the issue of your reassignment to Washington."

That didn't really surprise him. Even though he had no ego to feed – not much of one, anyway – he thought perhaps there would be some distress on the part of the citizens, if only because it meant a change, and most people feared change. He mentally kicked himself for not going ahead and telling Kitty he had turned down the job, and wondered if he could get her alone for just a minute before the news came out in front of everyone. "Mister Bodkin, that's an issue that involves the War Department, not – "

Festus stood and clanged forward a step. "Fiddle, Matthew. We ain't grudgin' ya', that's fer shore. Ain't one leddle biddie person in Dodge what'd say you didn't deserve it ten times over long ago. 'Sides, we figger it's 'bout time you an' Miss Kitty – well, it's only right you an' her finally – " The deputy stumbled over his words a bit. "Well, anyway, we figger it's only right, and we figger Newly'll do a rite fine job. 'Course we all know there ain't never gonna be another Matthew Dillon – "

A flush of consternation and embarrassment colored Matt's face. "Festus – " he began, shaking his head.

"Festus's speakin' the truth, Marshal," Hannah interrupted, then threw an irritated glare at the deputy. "In his own way."

Stepping in to reassert his leadership, Bodkin interrupted. "What we are trying to say, Marshal, is that you are a valued citizen of Dodge City, and I am quite certain that is a tremendous understatement."

Matt felt the flush deepen. "Mister Bodkin, really, I don't – "

"And, although we despair over seeing you move on, we cannot deny that you are overwhelmingly deserving of it."

Completely uncomfortable now, Matt resigned himself to the moment and braced to get through it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kitty smiling with both pride and amusement.

Bodkin cleared his throat importantly and held out an envelope. "Therefore, we, as citizens of Dodge City, would like to present you, Marshal Matthew Dillon, with a token of our appreciation for your years of service."

Taking the bulging paper, Matt nodded, hoping that his expression could relay his feelings better than his words would. "I thank you, Mister Bodkin, and everybody. I'm – _we're_ – truly grateful." He swallowed. "Twenty years – more, really – is a long time, especially in the life of a lawman. And Dodge – you people – you friends – have meant a great deal to me – and to Kitty."

He paused briefly, realizing that he had probably just confirmed the years of speculation about the true nature of his relationship with Kitty since the beginning. Catching another glimpse of Sam playing happily with Festus, he decided that was a moot point.

"But there's no need to give me anything. It was my job."

Mister Dobie leaned in, his hound dog face sincere. Matt smiled kindly, having always appreciated what the hotel owner did for him after Kitty left. "Maybe no need for you, Marshal, but there is need for us."

"Well, I thank you," Matt told them simply.

"Open it!" Hannah said.

Nodding again in gratitude, Matt slid a long finger down the sealed edge. Noting that there were several thickly folded sheets of paper stuffed inside of what he suspected was some sort of proclamation, perhaps the ubiquitous key to the city, he pulled them out.

"What – " he began, scanning the contents quickly

"I'm not sure what kind of pension a U.S. Marshal draws," Bodkin said. "Certainly not enough to merit the risks you have taken for us through the years."

"We'll be fine," Matt assured him absently, still reading.

But Bodkin continued. "There's no telling how many bank robberies you either stopped or recovered money from these past twenty years."

"What does that have to do with – "

He interrupted as if Matt hadn't said anything. "There were rewards on a number of those robberies. They add up to quite a bit of money. Money nobody ever collected."

Matt frowned. "The government doesn't collect rewards, Mister Bodkin. You know that. And I was the government in those situations so you don't have to worry about – "

"But there's no law against a regular citizen collecting the money, is there?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"As soon as your resignation is final, they'll be five thousand dollars in reward monies deposited in your name at the bank."

The usually unflappable marshal blinked once, then twice, vaguely aware that he stood there, mouth open. He felt Kitty's hand press into his forearm, and he tried to turn to look at her, but found himself unable to do even that. What had Bodkin said? Five thousand dollars? Last time he checked he barely had five _hundred _in the bank.

Finding one gasp of breath, he asked, "What? "

"There should be more, really, but many of the rewards have been withdrawn past a certain time limit."

"Mister Bodkin, I can't accept – "

Dobie nodded, pride touching his voice. "That's not all. Along with that there's ten thousand more that the good people of Dodge collected as a – well, I guess as a retirement present."

Fifteen-thousand dollars?

"And a thank you," Bodkin added, "for – " He stopped, looking directly at Matt, his expression, for once, free of the banker's façade, full of the warmth of genuineness. "—for so much that we don't even know where to begin."

Hannah smiled at them, her eyes proud and kind. "Marshal, one thing I've discovered since I've been here, the people of Dodge take care of our own – and you're one of our own. You and Miss Kitty and your boy." She nodded pointedly toward Kitty's abdomen. "And the one on the way."

"Oh, Matt," Kitty breathed, looking up at him.

The older woman glanced at her fellow citizens for a moment. Then, she shrugged. "I'm just gonna say it right out. We don't want you ta' go ta' Washington. We want you ta' stay in Dodge."

Matt swallowed again, overwhelmed by the generosity and love they were showing them. "I – I'm – grateful," he managed, wincing toward Kitty, who would be finding out with everyone else – and probably not happy about it, either. "But, I – _we_ – can't accept it."

The disappointment on their faces struck him hard. Through the years his relationship with the citizens of Dodge had undergone several evolutions. In the beginning they had been resentful of the limits the brash, young U.S. marshal had brought to the wild town, and he had been forced at times to go up against the very people he was sworn to protect. But it didn't take them long to figure out that Matt Dillon was like no man they had ever known. Even though he didn't see himself that way, his sheet physical impact was only an impressive outer shell that housed an even bigger and more impressive soul that epitomized fairness, honesty, nobleness, and courage. Over the years, the people of Dodge came to lionize him.

He glanced down at Kitty and saw the same feelings in her eyes. Patting his arm, she smiled warmly at the group. "You are all so – so generous," she said, her voice sincere. "Matt and I will miss – "

Matt slid his arm around Kitty's waist, a rare show of intimacy in front of other people. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear. "Uh, Kitty, there's something I need to tell you."

"Now?" she whispered back.

"Yeah."

"I think maybe you should know, Marshal," Hannah continued quickly, "that there's something else we, uh, have for you."

"Hannah – "

"We've been tryin' ta' figure out how ta' keep ya' here, but not stand in your way for that job."

"There's really no need – "

"So we had this idea. It was Edsel's really."

"You see, I've already – " He stopped, his ears running back over what Hannah had just said. "Edsel?"

Edsel Pry stepped from the crowd, her haughty expression somehow more subdued, although not completely masked. "It seemed a particular waste, Marshal, to devote all those years to training you," she said, "only to have you leave us."

Surely that wasn't a glint of humor in those beady eyes. Matt blinked twice to clear his own faulty vision.

"What have you done?" he asked, suddenly more than a little uneasy.

Clearing his throat, Doc Adams looked up at the towering lawman. "Well, Matt, we got to thinking that maybe it didn't matter where that training facility was located. We figured maybe – well, we all got together and decided the city could donate those two hundred acres out toward Cimarron that Widow Hanlin left the town in her will."

"There's not much to it," Jones acknowledged, "not very good farm land, that's for sure. But the Arkansas crosses it, and it's only about ten miles out. We figured that'd be a perfect spot for it."

"You _what_?"

"You know, of course, that the Attorney General is a friend of mine," Mrs. Pry reminded primly.

"Yes, ma'am," Matt said in a long-suffering tone. "You've mentioned it before. Several times."

"I wired him about Mrs. Hanlin's land."

"Mrs. Pry, you shouldn't have – "

"That's right. And we figger on hearing from him any day now," Jonas volunteered.

Matt pressed his lips together, a little irritated at their audacity, but also touched at their generosity and sorry for their inevitable disappointment. If they even heard back from the Attorney General at all, it would be to decline their offer. Taking a heavy breath, he regarded the people he had known so long. "Folks, I'm – well, I'm grateful for the thought. But the Attorney General's not going to change the entire plan for this program just for – "

"Don't you think you should let the Attorney General make that decision, Matt?"

The marshal jerked up his head, his height letting him see past the crowd to the door that stood open, framing a rather stocky man, his dark hair streaked with gray, his face rounded, his body thick with the evidence of fine living.

He would have greeted the visitor – if he'd been able to find even one gasp of breath to form a word. As it was, he could only stare, along with the rest of the crowd, as the United States Attorney General Augustus Garland himself strode into the room.

"Good morning, Marshal Dillon," he greeted, and although his face was pleasant enough, his tone was guarded. "Pardon my intrusion."

After several long moments, Matt managed, "Uh, yeah – "

"Have I interrupted something?"

No one provided the obvious answer.

A rather breathless Newly O'Brien hustled in behind the cabinet member. "He came to the jailhouse looking for you," he explained, his voice revealing more than a little awe.

"It's been a few years, Matt," Garland noted, a tight smile breaking the solemn planes of his face. "Good to see you again."

"You, too, General," Matt agreed, memory flickering back three years to his first meeting with Garland in Washington. A meeting that had brought him a commendation and personal letter of thanks from the Attorney General himself – to go along with the two broken ribs and knife wound he had managed to acquire in the process that earned him recognition he had certainly not sought.

The older man stopped close to Matt and squinted up at the marshal. "Have you gotten taller?"

"Not that I know of. Uh, General?" Matt asked tentatively, not at all sure he wanted to know the answer, "what brings you to Dodge?"

"Ah." Garland reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a small envelope that was immediately familiar to Matt. "I was just wondering," the Attorney General announced, raising the paper prominently, "what the he – " He glanced at Kitty, then Hannah and Edsel Pry, and amended, "what in tarnation I'm supposed to do with _this_."

"What is it?" Kitty asked, confusion drawing down her brow.

Instead of answering, Garland's gaze lit suddenly on her. "Marshal," he said, looking directly at Kitty, "are you going to introduce me to this lovely lady?"

"Oh." Grateful for the reprieve, he grasped Kitty's elbow and nodded toward Garland. "I'm sorry. This is my wife. Kitty, this is Augustus Garland, U.S. Attorney General."

A grin of true delight spread over the full face. "Indeed? Well, I am honored to meet you Mrs. Dillon. I had heard, of course, that Matt had finally come to his senses. I'm happy for you both," he said gallantly, his lips lingering over her hand – lingering a bit too long, as far as Matt was concerned.

Her tone a bit bemused, but pleased, Kitty answered graciously, "Thank you, General Garland. I'm rather happy for us, too." But she was not to be distracted. "Now, what is that you are holding?"

Matt winced, his moment of reprieve over.

For a moment, Garland looked surprised. "Well," he said, hesitating at first, then shrugging and plodding along. "This, Mrs. Dillon, is you husband's response to my – and the _President's _– offer to run the new marshals' training program in Washington."

Pursing his lips, Matt blew out hard, almost wishing there might be a sudden eruption of pugilism among them so that he could wade in and break it up and distract the Attorney General from his appointed path.

Unfortunately, no fisticuffs ensued.

Kitty shook her head, bemused. "I thought he'd already sent his answer." Turning to Matt, she asked, "Didn't you?"

"Kitty – "

"Wael," Festus prodded, his curiosity merely a vocalization of what everyone else was feeling. "What's it say?"

Garland's eyes widened, as if he were still surprised. "It says," he declared, "in a word, '_no_'."

The crowd turned as one to plaster their gazes directly on Matt. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, pressing his lips together in an expression that was part grimace, part flinch. Every eye in the room bore in to him, but there was one set of eyes that skewered him straight through.

One set of very blue, and very beautiful – and very _mad_ – eyes.

**TBC**


	21. This Moment

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter Twenty-one: This Moment**

POV: Kitty

Spoilers:

Rating: PG-17 (Teen ++)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam. (Well, Matt and Kitty created him in my story.)

**XXXX**

Despite her occasional tendency to burn a short fuse, Kitty Dillon rarely found herself truly angry with her even-tempered husband. Irritated, maybe; frustrated, certainly; worried, frequently, intrigued, always. But not often out and out angry. When she did get mad, though, it was usually a memorable scene. Of course, it was also usually a scene that was played out just between the two of them.

Somewhere beneath the red haze of anger, Kitty knew that the last thing her very private man wanted was to have a heated discussion with his wife right in front of everyone, but, at the moment, emotion overrode subtlety.

Stung that half of Dodge was witnessing her embarrassment over not being included in the unexpected and monumental decision, she couldn't keep from lashing out. "No? What do you mean, 'no'?"

"Kitty – "

"You changed the plan?"

He shot an uneasy glance toward the suddenly silent crowd. "Kitty – "

"You – you turned him down?"

Taking a deep breath, he squared up, rearing back a bit to his full height. "Yeah."

Logic tried to pull her back, to excuse herself and him to a more private area. But logic failed. "Without talking with me?"

Hands planted firmly on her hips, she shot daggers from her eyes right through him, mildly satisfied to see her bold, intrepid lawman flinch just a bit. How dare he? How dare he make that decision without her?

Infuriatingly calm, he stood before her with the same courage that faced down the worst outlaws and quietly acknowledged, "I did."

"You did?"

"I did." Still calm.

He did. Damn him, he did.

After all that talk and all that assurance to him that she was with him no matter what, he had gone and thrown it all away. How dare he simply discard all the sacrifices she had made for his happiness. How dare he be the one to give up –

Oh God. Realization washed over her and doused the flame of anger. Horrified, she let her gaze falter and looked down, not focusing on anything. Was that why she was so angry? Had she really felt that way? Had she resented his sacrifice? All these years, had she taken some strange pride in being the one who gave up something for their relationship?

She stared back up at him, still stunned by her own awareness.

She saw him squint with a hint of uncertainty when he couldn't read her sudden change in expression. Then, using her silence as an opportunity, he grasped her by the shoulders and said softly, "That's what I was going to tell you, Kitty, before we – " Flushing, he turned her so that his big body shielded them partly from the crowd. " I know you said that – " His voice lowered in a vain attempt to include only her in the conversation. " – that home is where the heart is, but, Kitty, Dodge _is_ home. I can't take you away from here. I can't take you away from Doc and Festus, and your friends. And Sam needs to grow up around these people." He glanced down at her stomach. "Sam and – "

Finding her voice again, although this time with less volume, she tried to protest. "No, Matt – "

"Yes," he insisted. "I'll get that ranch we talked about. Buy some horses."

"You don't have to – "

His fingers touched her lips to stop her. "No, I don't have to." Smiling softly, he finished, "But I _want_ to."

And there it was. The decision. The one that he made all by himself. The one that shocked her. The one that infuriated her. The one that she now realized delighted her.

"We're not going to Washington?"

It was not really a question, but he answered anyway. "We're not going."

"We're staying here in Dodge?" Another non-question.

"We're staying here."

Despite her assurance to him that she was perfectly fine leaving the town that had been home for over 20 years, her heart swelled at the realization that they weren't leaving after all. With a cry, she leaped into his arms, forcing him to stagger back a step to steady them.

"Oh, Matt!" Her kiss was full of delight and gratitude and love – and passion. She had intended for it to be quick, but once their lips touched she couldn't stop.

And suddenly, neither could he. The kiss grew deeper, hotter, and for a moment, she forgot about everything – and everyone – except the very masculine body against her. Until she felt him tense, his hands coming up to tug at the strong-hold she had around his neck.

"Uh, Kitty – " he mumbled against her mouth.

But she only wanted to hold him, to show him how much it meant to her. They would stay in Dodge with all their friends. Those friends who thought so much of them that they had come to their house and offered –

Abruptly, she stopped in mid-kiss and cut her eyes to the side to look at those very friends who now stood there gaping at them, their eyes wide with astonishment. For the long-time citizens, many of whom had been satisfying their curiosity for twenty years with just a nibble of affection between the discreet lovers, this was a veritable feast.

Letting her lips separate from his finally, she glanced up at her husband's reddened cheeks. Wincing, she loosened her grip so that he could lower her to the floor.

"Well," she breathed, smoothing out her skirt, a touch of color that needed no rouge in her own cheeks.

Matt cleared his throat and looked back at them, his head down so that his eyes peered almost like a little boy from under his brow. He tried to tug a bit of dignity around him, but as soon as he glanced her way, she saw that his gaze was still heated, still full of love and promise.

For several seconds, no one spoke. They just basked in the completely unexpected – and precious – moment. Finally, the Attorney General echoed Matt's throat-clearing and said, "Uh, Marshal, before you buy those horses, I'd appreciate it if you'd hear me out on something."

Reluctantly dragging his eyes away from her, Matt shook his head and bit tentatively at his lower lip. "General, you have my answer. I'm sorry you've come for nothing – "

"Actually, it's not for nothing. There's another reason why I'm here," Garland continued. "I got a wire from Edsel, here."

Edsel?

Kitty turned to stare at the only Edsel in the room, presumably the only Edsel in Kansas. Her mouth dropped in astonishment at the smirk of satisfaction on the sour old face of Edsel Pry.

"My wife's first cousin," Garland explained with a touch of amusement.

"I'll be darned," Matt muttered, equally surprised.

"According to her wire, Dodge City is extending an offer to the War Department."

Matt winced. "General, I think I can explain – "

Garland waved a hand, interrupting the marshal. "No need. I can understand why these folks don't want to let you go, Marshal."

Kitty slid her hand through the crook of Matt's arm. She saw his cheeks burning with the uncomfortable compliment, but he didn't protest. After all, it _was_ the Attorney General.

"Thing is, the President and I don't want to let you go, either."

She watched Matt's eyes narrow, a certain danger sign. Surely Garland wasn't going to try to strong-arm him into this. Jaw hardening, Matt insisted, "I'm sorry, but I've already decided – "

"So," Garland continued smoothly, "I see I'll just have to accept the town's offer."

"General, I told you, I won't – " He stopped abruptly, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. "What?"

"I said," the Attorney General answered, a smile curving his thick lips, "I'll just have to accept the town's offer."

Her heart pumping in cautious anticipation, Kitty clutched tighter onto Matt's arm. "You'll – what?"

Garland, an enthusiastic orator, hesitated a moment for effect, looked around the room, then grinned and announced, "It is my pleasure to declare to you that the War Department graciously accepts the generous offer by the city of Dodge to erect a U.S. Marshal's training facility here." His head inclined toward Matt and he added, "That is, if Marshal Dillon will re-consider accepting the position as director."

A wave of excitement swept the crowd, but they kept their voices, realizing that the final say rested with the tall lawman, who at the moment could only stare at the Attorney General. Kitty found herself in a similar fix.

"I'm not here to force you into something you don't want to do," Garland assured them, then laughed and scanned up Matt's imposing frame. "Don't figure I could do that anyway. But I sure didn't ride all the way out here on a sooty train just to wish you a happy retirement."

Kitty exchanged an incredulous glance with her husband. "General Garland," she asked again, her heart not quite believing what her brain was saying, "you're telling us that you are willing to move the whole thing – "

"I'm willing and the President is willing. We'd be fools to let our best man go if there was some way to keep him." His hand grasped Matt's forearm with a firm squeeze. "You've given the service almost thirty years of your life, Matt. And you don't have to tell me how many times you've come close to giving your life itself."

Nobody had to tell Kitty that.

"I figure this is the least the Service can do in return." Garland's tone grew serious. "God knows you've paid your dues, son."

That familiarity brought a smile to her lips. The Attorney General couldn't be more than ten years older than Matt. Still, the grin that broke out on her Cowboy's face reminded her of the handsome, rawboned, young marshal who had captured her attention – and her heart – so many years before.

Garland drew back, the solemn expression relaxing again, and waved a casual hand around. "Besides, this is a better location. More room to grow."

Kitty's hand tightened around his arm and she leaned hard against him.

"So, what about it, Matt?" Garland asked. "Will you agree to that? Will you stay here and accept the position as Director of the U.S. Marshal's Training Program?"

Around the room it seemed as if no one breathed. The crowd watched, afraid to move in case they missed any moment of this extraordinary scene, waiting for their marshal to make a decision that would affect not only his life but the lives of every person in Dodge – perhaps even the entire country.

But instead of answering Garland, Matt turned to his wife, his eyes wary and apologetic. "I'd still be wearing this," he noted, touching the shining badge that hung on the blue material over his chest.

Kitty looked at the smooth silver medallion that had been her nemesis for so many years. She hated it – and yet it was so much a part of her life that she had come to accept it and even take pride in it from time to time. Matt Dillon without the badge? She tried to picture it, had yearned so long to see that very sight. Was this the time?

Looking into his beautiful sky-blue eyes, seeing the surprising touch of vulnerability shimmer there, she knew the answer. Her hand lifted to touch his cheek in as gentle and assuring touch as she could make it. "And I wouldn't have it any other way, Cowboy."

Relief, gratitude, love, and promise flashed across his rugged face before he managed to rein back his emotions. She saw him swallow hard before he nodded, moving her hand to his lips and brushing the fingertips in a kiss. Straightening and squaring his shoulders, he turned back to Garland. "General, I guess you have your director."

The crowd erupted into cheers so loud that Kitty wouldn't have been surprised if they were heard all the way back to the Long Branch. Breaking ranks, the exultant citizens swarmed around them, shaking Matt's hand vigorously and slapping him on the back. Hannah took the liberty of giving him a very thorough – and extended – hug, merely grinning without apology when Kitty shot her a warning glance that was only half-joking.

The merriment continued for several minutes. Even Sam joined in, clapping and squealing with innocent delight, completely oblivious to the motivation but happy to be part of it. When the excitement finally ebbed, Matt stood before these people who had been so much a part of his existence – despite his general philosophy of independence – for so many years. He hesitated, and Kitty realized with a fond pang, that it was not for effect like Garland had done, but to make sure he could get through the next statement without embarrassing himself.

"I'm not sure exactly what to say, except – thank you. And that Kitty and I are – overwhelmed by your generosity." He shrugged slightly and added, "Of course, I, uh, I still can't accept the reward money – "

A murmur of protest rose from the group, but he held up his hand to stifle it. "It was in the line of duty, and you understand I can't – I just can't accept it."

"What about the money from the town, Marshal?" Dobie asked, his expression almost hurt. "Surely you can accept that."

He sighed and opened his mouth, but before he could politely refuse them again, Hannah added, "We'll put it in a trust for the children."

Kitty allowed herself to take in the expressions of those watching and was shocked to read eagerness, almost pleading, on their faces. She realized then that it meant much more to their friends to give the money than it did for them to receive it. It was, for the citizens of Dodge, a way to feel as if they were paying back something that was impossible to pay back. Exchanging glances with her husband, she saw the reluctant understanding in his eyes.

Without words, they agreed. Matt slid his arm around her waist and nodded for her to answer. "We'd be honored," she told them warmly.

Pleased smiles broke out across the room.

"Thank you," Matt said. Then the normally reticent lawman surprised them all and added, "I want you to know that it has been – my honor – to serve Kansas, and Dodge in particular, for these past twenty years." He paused, lips pressed together hard as he reigned in the emotion. "My honor," he repeated, voice hoarse.

Her heart swelled for him. She knew what those few, poignant words meant coming from him. The others seemed to know, too. A keen silence fell over the room. No one spoke for a long moment, the impact of his statement affecting them.

Finally, with a sniff, Kitty raised her head. "This calls for a celebration. Napoleon brandy for everyone!"

"Liquor?" Mrs. Pry asked in a scandalized tone.

"Liquor," Kitty repeated firmly.

"Well," the old woman allowed, "since it _is_ a celebration – "

The hoorah echoed through the house as Kitty gave her husband a quick, but thorough, kiss and headed toward the liquor cabinet.

Surrounded by several of their friends, she watched as Matt looked down at the very surprising town busybody. "Mrs. Pry," he began, "I don't know what to say – "

The old woman waved her hand. "Pshaw. You just make sure when those offspring of yours come sneaking around windows they don't run off with my pies."

Kitty flinched and frowned until Mrs. Pry continued, almost smiling. "They'd better come on in and have a piece with their Aunt Edsel."

With a curt nod, she marched past a speechless Matt to get in line for Kitty's brandy, the rest of the town staring after her, equally shocked.

Finally, Doc cleared his throat and ran a hand over his mustache. "You live long enough, you'll see just about everything."

Amid the accompanying laughter, the Attorney General extended his hand. "Well, Marshal. Good doing business with you."

"You, too, General." Matt shook his hand. "I'm obliged to you – and the President."

"Our gain." Garland bowed slightly toward Kitty. "Mrs. Dillon," he called, "try to keep this big fellow in line, will you?"

Kitty smiled graciously. "General, I'm afraid he's the one keeping all the rest of us in line."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed. "I can believe that."

She watched with amusement as Matt tried not to squirm under the blatant admiration.

"Well," Garland declared, "I'd best be getting back to catch the evening train." He slapped a hand over Matt's arm, and Kitty winced as she heard the quick in-take of breath.

Immediately, Garland pulled away. "Oh, Marshal, I apologize. I forgot that the deputy told me you'd been injured again."

Unsuccessfully trying to hold back the grimace, Matt attempted to wave off the concern. "Oh, he just winged – " he began, but catching a glimpse of Doc's scowl, he smiled weakly and amended, "It's not too bad."

Adams simply shook his head.

As the rest of the celebrants did their cheerful best to deplete the Dillons of their liquor stock, Kitty tugged gently at her husband's sleeve, steering him to a relatively empty corner of the room.

Looking up at him, allowing her hand to rest intimately against his chest, she mused, "Is it really true, Matt? Did this really happen?"

He smiled down at her. "Why wouldn't you think so?"

"I don't know. Maybe it seems too go to be true. All my life I've thought about this moment, told myself it was going to come, but I'm not sure I actually really believed it would."

His smiled faded, the years of guilt clouding his joy, and she regretted saying anything. But she couldn't help the wonder that lifted her heart.

"Listen, Matt. Whatever's happened in the past, let's leave it there."

Disregarding the people that still surrounded them, he slid his arms around her waist. "Kitty, our past has made us what we are. We can't leave it. But we can move on from it. I never thought much about 'this moment,' as you call it." A shadow darkened his eyes. "That's because I never figured I'd live long enough to have something like this," he admitted.

The blunt statement clutched at her heart. "Matt Dillon, don't say such a thing."

"It's true, Kitty. The life of the average lawman is only – "

"Oh, now, you're forgetting something very important."

He frowned. "What?"

"_You_, Marshal Dillon, are _not_ the average lawman."

"Maybe," he conceded, and it was as close as she'd ever heard him come to acknowledging that he really was rather extraordinary. "When you were gone – "

Her fingers went to his lips to stop him from bringing up that painful time, but he smiled and shook his head.

"When you were gone, it felt as if my heart was haunted. You had been there so many years and then all I had left was a ghost. I knew then that if I found you again, if I had the real Kitty back in my heart – and if I could convince her to take me back into her heart – I'd never let go of it again."

Tears burned her eyes, welling over and down her cheeks. She managed to whisper her love for him before he pulled her to him and cradled her in those long, strong arms of his. Finally, the crowd disappeared and only the two of them remained. Finally, they found themselves wrapped around each other, sharing the love and passion and pleasures that had bound them for half their lives. And finally, Kitty Russell Dillon began to think this moment really was real.

**XXXX**

"Kitty!"

She jerked awake with the sudden movement beside her, her eyes adjusting to the dim light so that she could see the perspiration on Matt's skin, hear his gasps, feel the trembling of his body. Please, not again, she prayed,

"Matt?" she called to him gently, ready to sooth and comfort, willing to chase away the nightmares.

With visible effort, he turned onto his side, smiled shakily into her worried blue eyes and lifted a hand to brush away the rich, red curls that fell across her face. "I'm sorry – I woke you," he gasped, still trying to catch his breath.

She blinked, rousing herself enough to prop on one hand and peer at his sweaty face. "You okay, Cowboy?"

"Yeah."

Her face softened in compassion. "Another nightmare?"

"No."

Sure. "It's okay, Matt. I heard you – cry out. I understand."

"Really, it wasn't – "

"Come here." Her arms wrapped around him, drawing his head to lie carefully on her breasts, stroking through the haphazard waves of his hair.

"I'm all right, Kitty," he assured her.

"Okay."

"I promise."

"Can I ask you something, Matt?"

He laughed ironically. "When have you ever needed permission to ask me anything?"

But she was serious. Continuing partly to distract him and partly to satisfy her own curiosity, she said, "You asked me about the job before. You didn't give Garland an answer at first because you wanted to talk with me."

"Yeah."

"So when you changed your mind, why didn't you ask me about it again?" She tried to keep the hurt from her tone. That was water under the bridge, now.

Leaning over so that his lips brushed hers tenderly, he said, "Because you would have tried to talk me out of it. And you probably would have succeeded. You can be very persuasive, Mrs. Dillon," he told her, his long fingers stroking over a smooth breast.

She sucked in a quick breath at the sensation.

"This was the right thing to do, Kitty. For you – " He moved his hand to her stomach. "For all of us."

"It'll be strange."

"What?"

"Not worrying every minute whether or not you're coming home all shot up – or not at all."

"You think maybe you can get used to it?"

She smiled up at him. "I think maybe I can. Now, let me give you something better to dream about," she murmured, sliding her hands up his chest.

Kitty," he said, suddenly hoarse, "I really didn't have a nightmare."

Stubborn man. "Matt, I saw you – I heard you. You were dreaming – "

"Oh, I was dreaming, all right," he acknowledged. "But it wasn't a nightmare."

"It wasn't?"

He shook his head and grinned at her, drawing her hand to his groin, to rest over the most blatant physical evidence that remained of his dream.

As her fingers wrapped around the thick, silken heat, she felt a deliciously familiar warmth rush to her center. "Oh," she breathed, relieved and aroused at once. "That must have been some dream."

"Oh, yeah," he groaned.

Without even thinking, she stretched out on top of him, fitting their hips together so that they were touching as intimately as possible without being joined. His hands traced up the backs of her thighs, his head bent so that his lips could take in a nipple and suck luxuriously. 

"Ow!"

He stopped immediately, looking up at her with a question on his lips, but before he could ask, she smiled weakly and explained, "They're a little sore."

A look of almost unbearable tenderness touched his eyes and he nodded, rolling her to the side and leaning forward to kiss her stomach softly before he dragged his tongue back up to circle in gentle caresses around the nipple again. This time, sparks of desire shot through her breast and pulsed between her legs. His hand slipped down, his touch inflaming her.

"Oh, God! That's – that's –" She couldn't actually pull the words to her lips.

The exquisite feeling stopped. She looked down in distress, desperate for him to keep going. But his eyes had grown smoky, clouded, and she saw the need in them. His hands slid over the swell of her hips, pressed her into him but it wasn't enough. They both wanted more. They both needed more. Now.

His mouth claimed hers and without breaking the kiss he shifted, twisting so he was above her, lowering his hips to hers. They were both way past ready. But he slid against her once, then held still.

She looked up in protest. Please don't stop! Please don't!

"The baby?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes moist.

A shiver tingled through her. "It's fine," she assured him. "We won't hurt her."

"Are you sure – "

She smiled as she lifted her pelvis to rub against him. "I'm sure. Please, Matt. I need you."

"You'll never know how much I need you," he said tightly, and she knew he meant more than just the urgent physical need of the moment. Bracing on his hands, he nudged her legs farther apart with one knee.

She expected a hard plunge, a deep thrust, but he kept control, easing into her slowly, careful not to be too rough, not to take a chance. She smiled at his thoughtfulness, at his ability to hold back. He withdrew, then pushed in again, leaning forward to suck on her earlobe, to kiss the tip of her nose, to tug her lower lip between his teeth. Then he pulled back with aching luxury, drawing out of her body just to the edge. He held there until she couldn't bear the teasing and tugged him toward her with her legs. Even then he waited one more beat before he sank inside her again. Her groan carried across the room. And it continued like that, easy and gentle, much slower than she would have believed possible as excited as they both were.

Occasionally he paused and drew in a shuddering breath, bending down to kiss her, to trace the contours of her face with his lips. And sometimes she stopped him, when she felt herself approaching the edge, made him wait until she had subdued her body's urgency. She wasn't sure exactly when the luxuriously slow slides accelerated, but after a very long time, she felt him swing into a faster rhythm, dropping onto his elbows, and she allowed her body to follow his lead as the sensations began climbing over each other with increasing power until they were both carried past any real control. Mouth open in a silent gasp, she teetered for a long moment on the pinnacle, unable to go over, but unwilling to go back, until her straining, screaming muscles erupted in delicious spasms around him, the focus of pleasure at her center bursting and shooting ecstasy through her. As the explosion peaked, she found her voice and could not suppress a cry.

"Maaatt!"

At her release, his body tensed, a low, tortured groan rising from deep within his chest as she arched against him. Her name burst from his throat just as the hard pulses burst into her. Sweat trickled down his face as he thrust again and again, trying not to push too hard, but no longer able to control his body's fierce instinct to be buried deep inside her. For a moment she thought it would never stop, and that was fine by her. But eventually, the intensity faded. Somehow, he remained braced on his elbows, rocking gently back and forth. Raising a trembling hand, she brushed back the waves scattered over his brow, pushed through the hair at his temple, trailed a finger around his ear, then pulled his head down so she could kiss him as they continued to move together in the soothing aftershocks, his body caressing hers with gentle motions.

Finally, he slowly withdrew and rolled back with a reluctant, but satisfied moan. As she felt him slide from her body, she sighed, not wanting to lose the exquisite feel of him inside her.

Lying back, he drew her against him, her fiery hair falling across his shoulder like a silk fan. She heard the thunder of his heart, felt the dampness of his skin, the hard rise and fall of his broad chest as his lungs worked to regain normal breathing. And she knew he heard and felt the same from her.

"Matt?" she murmured. Even her mouth was exhausted.

He wasn't in any better shape. "Hmm?"

"I love you."

A lazy smile curved his lips. "I love you, too."

"That was – " What could she say? Intense? Incredible? Exquisite? Explosive? Yes, all of those things. But she fell into Matt's habit of understatement and just said, " – nice."

"Yes," he agreed.

Stretching, she snuggled up against his side. "I can't believe Sam is still asleep."

"Good boy."

She laughed. "I think we were just lucky this time. I'm not sure how lucky we'll be with two of them. She might not cooperate quite so well."

"She?"

"Or he."

"She," he confirmed.

"Matt?"

"Hmm?"

The fear that always rested just beneath the all-too-thin surface of confidence nudged its way out. She had planned not to say anything, not to voice her maternal worries, but after the powerful release, her control had grown lax. "What if – what if something goes wrong? What is she's not – "

"Now, Kitty – "

"I mean, like you told Doc, I _am_ forty-two – "

"You're admitting to it?" he teased.

"I'm serious."

He shifted so that his hand rested on her hip, fingers tickling chill bumps onto her skin. "Kitty, everything's going to be fine. You're healthy and strong. Doc said so. There's no reason to think it won't be all right." But she saw the tinge of worry in his eyes, even as he reassured her.

"Of course," she agreed, lowering her gaze so that he didn't see the same expression mirrored on her face. "Just fine."

But as she snuggled deeper in his embrace, she remembered her comment to him just that afternoon. _Maybe it seems too good to be true._

It would be cruel, she reflected silently, secure in the safety of his strong body, after all they had been through, for God to deny them this happiness. Those months in New Orleans, apart from him, wondering how she would live the rest of her life without him, had been torturous – a nightmare to rival even the worst that Bonner had left her with. And then, salvation, redemption. He had come back to her, _for_ her – and they had Sam, and soon another – with God's blessing.

No, she had to believe that neither of their hearts would be haunted anymore. She had to believe that this _was_ that moment she had dreamed of, yearned for. This was their time. And she was determined not to let go of it – or of him – ever again. Whatever fate brought them from this moment on, they would meet it together.

And after 20 years, that was more than enough.

**TBC in Epilogue**

"In the night though we're apart,

There's a ghost of you within my haunted heart.

Ghost of you, my lost romance,

Lips that laugh, eyes that dance.

Haunted heart won't let me be,

Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.

Dreams are dust, it's you who must belong to me,

And thrill my haunted heart.

Be still, my haunted heart.

Time rolls on trying in vain to cure me.

You are gone but you remain to lure me.

You're there in the dark and I call,

You're there but you're not there at all.

Oh, what will I do without you, without you.

Haunted heart, won't let me be.

Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.

Dreams are dust, it's you who must belong to me

And thrill my haunted heart.

Be still, my haunted heart."

"Haunted Heart"

1948

Lyrics: Howard Dietz

Music: Arthur Schwartz


	22. End of the Journey

Okay, this really is the last chapter, but there is an epilogue to follow to wrap things up. Warning: _Beware the angst!_ (Didn't think I could finish without a little bit more, did you?) Special thanks to Blendini for her kind permission to use her name for Matt's mom in this chapter. (If you haven't read her series about young Matty – or any of her other stories, for that matter – you need to look them up!) And thanks to Jan (and Pan) for supplying the names of Festus' relatives. I hope you enjoy!

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Chapter 22: End of the Journey**

POV: Doc

Spoilers: "Aunt Thede;" "Mad Dog;" "Hard Luck Henry;" "Hostage!"

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam, et al., (with a little help from Matt and Kitty).

**XXXXX**

Galen Adams rubbed his fingers roughly over his eyes in a vain effort to wipe the moisture from them. He blinked, his gaze returning to the poignant scene before him, to the strapping, veteran lawman, head of the U.S. Marshal's Training Program, and the biggest, bravest, strongest man he'd ever known, who was at that moment on the floor by his wife's beside, shedding rare tears over the small body that lay cradled in his grasp.

The doctor reflected that he had seen Matt Dillon in just about every condition imaginable throughout the years: tense, relaxed, angry, happy, worried, satisfied, irritated, pleased, robust, near-death. But even counting the anguish of that horrible day almost two years before when Matt returned to discover that Kitty had left, Doc wasn't sure he had ever seen the big man completely overcome by emotion as he was now, collapsed at her side, holding that tiny baby in his huge hands.

Despite the public's perception of Matt Dillon "the legend," Doc knew that he was not the stoic, hard-jawed stereotype lawman whose hide was too thick to be pierced. On the contrary, Matt Dillon, the all-too-human man, was quite capable of deep emotions. Normally, he held those emotions tightly in check, at least around everyone except his very closest friends, and even then only rarely did he let them loose. Now, though, the circumstances that seized them all had ripped through the marshal's iron grip of control and literally brought the stalwart lawman to his knees.

Doc let his gaze shift from the overwhelmed father to the pale and very still mother, and finally to the infant. He reflected that he had just about seen it all in his years as a frontier doctor. But nothing had affected him more than his relationships with his close friends in Dodge, and in particular Matt Dillon and Kitty Russell. What a journey they had all had. He likened it to a stage coach plundering cross-country over mountains, through rivers, across the prairie, sometimes easy, sometimes impossible, all times interesting. In the past hours, with an aching heart, he had wondered if this was the end of the journey for them, if this would be where they stopped. Surely not. He had prayed that it wasn't.

He had prayed fervently that it wasn't the end.

**XXXXX**

It wasn't supposed to happen that way.

Kitty had gone through the pregnancy with impressive ease, despite their worries, and it looked as though she would be late with the delivery. Two weeks before her projected time, she hadn't exhibited even the slightest evidence that the baby was ready to be born. Tired and irritable, she had complained that the child was certainly taking its time.

As they waited, work progressed toward the training facility. Ground had been broken, and Matt was scheduled to take a group of prospective trainers – experienced marshals and deputies – on a four-day trail ride to evaluate their abilities and select his staff. As the time drew nearer, however, the marshal became increasingly reluctant.

"I just don't think I should be away that long," he confided to Doc the night before he was to head out. "What if Kitty – "

Adams flinched with the memory of his own response – a response that had haunted him ever since. "Now, don't you worry. She'll be fine. It's just four days. You take care of this now. Who knows when you'll be able to get it done once the baby is born? Kitty will need your help even more then."

Regret clouded those blue eyes gray, dropping the mask that usually protected the marshal's emotions. "It's just that, well, I wasn't there for her when Sam was born."

Doc wanted to mention that that certainly hadn't been Matt's choice, but he didn't say anything.

"I'm not going to let her down this time. Are you _sure_ it's not going to be this week?'

The doctor had to smile at the complete reversal of the past twenty years, when the job had come first. Now he could see evidence that the ubiquitous badge had finally been usurped.

Gently, he reassured the worried husband. "She's not even effaced, yet, much less dilated."

The casual use of the terminology brought an embarrassed wince to the big man's face. "Yeah, well, still – "

Chuckling, Adams patted a hard bicep. "It'll be fine, Matt. You go on, and if something does start to happen, I'll send Festus out after you. Babies usually take a while, anyway."

"Don't you worry about me, Cowboy," Kitty had added as she came back into the room from rocking Sam to sleep. "There's no way I'm gonna have this baby without you."

Slipping the mask back on, Matt slid an arm around her thickened waist. "_She_ might have other plans," he teased, picking up their running joke. They had a bet over whether the baby would be a boy or a girl. Doc didn't know what the winner got. Judging from the flashing heat in their eyes, he was pretty sure he didn't want to know.

"Well, if you're not here, _he'll_ just have to wait."

The banter ended with a quick kiss that Doc knew would have been much more involved he had not been present. But the continued intensity of their gazes told him he would be well-advised to excuse himself to the guest room with relative haste and leave the lovers to themselves for the rest of the evening.

The next morning, Matt had ridden off, reluctance clear on his face, acquiescing only with prodding from Doc's firm assurances and Kitty's confident smile. Although he had chuckled at the marshal then, Doc found no humor at all in the situation that confronted him three days later.

A physician's day started early and ended late – if it ever ended at all. He had barely made it back to town after setting Little Tommy Roniger's arm before he was stitching together a deep but simple gash in Nathan Burke's thumb, the result of an accident whose additional casualty included a new mirror previously destined for the Lady Gay. The freight clerk had moaned and groaned more than his fair share before Doc got tired and told him to shut up or he would rip the thread right back out. His patient had been significantly more subdued after that.

He had just grabbed his hat in hopes that he could make it to Delmonicos for an early lunch before the next crisis when the distinctive jingles on his steps alerted him to his new visitor. Before he could utter his usual biting remark that would lead into a morning of sharp, but affectionate, banter between the two, Festus' urgent tone told him that something was wrong.

"Doc!"

Despite his rational core urging calm, his heart kicked against his chest. "What?" he called out, stepping to open the door.

The alarm on the scraggly face told him everything before Festus even opened his mouth.

"Kitty?" the doctor guessed immediately.

"She's done gone an' – wael, th' baby's done gone an' – it's comin'. An' Matthew ain't chere, Doc, an – "

"Hold on, Festus," he soothed smoothly, years of calming worried fathers – or fathers' friends – under his belt. "I'll get my bag and go back with you. She's not alone, is she?"

"Naw. Miz Hannah wuz a visitin', brung Miz Kitty an' Sam some vittles. I jes rid by ta' check on 'er, like I told Matthew I would – "

"Okay. Well, Hannah's with her, so that's good. You listen to me. Kitty's gonna be just fine."

"But Matthew ain't chere – "

"I know. I know. Let's just go check on Kitty, then I'll let you know if you need to go get Matt. It's early for her. Could be she's not really in labor, yet. Sometimes there are false signs – "

"It shore didn't sound false," the deputy assured him.

Doc stopped and looked at him, running a hand over his mouth. "What do you mean?"

"Miz Kitty wuz groanin' somp'm fierce, Doc. I ain't never heerd no sheemale sound like that afore."

"Groaning?"

"An' thrashing around in th' bed. I'm tellin' ya' she's in a bad way, Doc."

A chill tingled through the doctor's blood, settling in his bones. With more urgency, he gathered his instruments. "You get my buggy, will you, Festus?"

"Waitin' fer ye' downstairs. I run by th' stable and got Moss ta' bring it round."

"Oh, well, good." Forcing a smile, he patted his distraught friend on the back. "Now, don't worry, Festus. I'm going to go take care of Kitty, and you head out and bring Matt back. And don't tell him about – well, just don't tell him anything's wrong," he admonished. "It might not be, after all."

When the deputy spun on a boot heel and pounded down the steps, Adams lifted his eyes and murmured a prayer that came from the inner-most cavity of his heart. He asked for skill, he asked for wisdom, and he asked for mercy on a woman who was more his daughter than any other – and a man who was more his son.

**XXX**

Hannah met him at the door of the Dillon house; her eyes, which normally twinkled pleasantly, now shone dark and worried. Fear jolted through him at what that might mean.

"Kitty?" he asked.

"She's sufferin'. That baby oughta be comin', but – I think somethin's wrong, Doc."

Without another word, he shuffled through the house as quickly as he could. Looking small, Kitty lay in the middle of the big bed, custom made to fit Matt's long frame. Her face was washed white. Even her fiery hair had dulled, doused by sweat and pain. Doc bit back a cry of despair. He had seen too many women look like that, had witnessed too many tragedies of childbirth in which the child died, or the mother died – or both.

"Hey there, darlin'," he greeted, smiling at her with as much confidence as he could muster.

Her eyes flickered to him, and she worked bravely to return the smile, even though she didn't quite make it. "Doc," she managed weakly.

"You and that baby snuck up on me. Shoulda known Kitty Russell wasn't gonna be predictable."

Only his imagination could see any humor reflected in her clouded eyes. "Matt?"

"He'll be along directly," he assured her. "Festus went to fetch him."

"He wanted – he wanted so much to be here – "

"He will be. Don't you worry. Just rest there, and – "

Without warning, she arched in the bed, her mouth open in a silent cry, her hands wrapping around the iron rungs of the headboard. Pushing his professional responsibility past his fatherly concern, Doc tugged out his watch and timed the contraction.

"How far apart?' he asked Hannah, glancing up.

The older woman grimaced. "Ten minutes or so."

"And you haven't seen any sign of the baby?"

"Nothing, Doc."

After what seemed like an eternity the contraction released Kitty, and she fell back limply, sweat trailing down her face. "Sam? Where's Sam?" she asked weakly.

Hannah peered over the bed. "Don't you worry none about that boy. Bess Roniger's got 'im. With the passel of young un's of hers, he's got more attention now than he knows what ta' do with."

"Matt?" the fragile voice asked again.

Adams exchanged concerned glances with Hannah. "Remember, honey, I said he was coming? He'll be here." Soon, he hoped.

"He – he didn't want to go," she murmured, her head moving weakly from side to side. "I – told him – I said it would be – fine – he didn't want to go – "

"It's going to be fine, Kitty," he comforted, guilt sweeping over him at his own part in convincing the marshal he should leave.

"He didn't get to see – Sam born – his – son – my – fault – I shouldn't have – left – "

"Now, Kitty, that's water under the bridge. You don't need to be thinking about that anymore."

"Doc?" she asked again, so softly he had to bend down to hear her.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Doc, this – this doesn't – feel right. Something's – wrong, isn't it? I told Matt I was – afraid that – "

"Hush now. Everything's fine."

Amazingly, she seemed to gain strength, raising her hand to clutch her fingers in his shirt front. "No, no. I can – tell. Listen, Doc, if – something happens – "

"No, Kitty, don't talk like – "

"Please. Let me – say this."

He didn't want to hear it, but he couldn't deny her. "Okay. Go ahead."

"If something – happens, Matt's gonna – it's gonna be – hard on him. He might not – let it show. You know how – he is."

Doc thought back to the evening two years before that Matt had returned from the trail and found out about Kitty's leaving, pictured those dazed, miserable, drunken eyes. Oh, it would show. Dear God, it would show. He didn't want to think about what would happen if Kitty – No, he refused to consider it.

"Promise – me?"

Dear God. "Promise you what, dear?"

"You'll be – his friend. You'll look – out for him."

He swallowed and smiled at her kindly. "You know I will. I always have been."

"Yes," she breathed, her strength fading, her arm falling back to the bed. "To – both of us."

It took all of his professional training not to break down right then, but he managed, knowing that keeping his own sanity might be Kitty's only chance. "Now, you just lie back and rest so we can get that baby here."

Her response was simply to close her eyes. As tenderly as he could, Doc shifted her on the bed, whispering soothing words as he felt for the baby. When his fingers brushed over the area where the child's head shoulder have been, his heart almost stopped.

His eyes lifted and met Hannah's, confirming the woman's fear that something was, indeed, wrong.

**XXX**

It was almost evening when he heard the hard pounding of Buck's hooves, the sound reaching him long before he looked out the window to see the lawman leap from the horse and stride toward the house, his long legs eating up the remaining few yards to the door. Festus was nowhere to be seen. Doc could tell by the glistening coat and hard snorts of the buckskin that the marshal had ridden at a full gallop all the way back home. Matt's appearance backed that up, his shirt and vest dark with sweat, his hat and trousers white with dust, his jaw and chin rough with grit and a three-day-old growth of beard.

With a crash, the door flew open and familiar, wide shoulders blocked the outside view. Doc took a deep breath. He had been mulling over what he could say, how he could be gentle with news that wasn't gentle. Not gentle at all.

One glance into those haunted blue eyes, though, told him Matt had already come to that conclusion on his own. Damn Festus and his big mouth. Broad chest heaving, he filled the doorway, every line of his body aching for answers – and reassurance. Reassurance Galen Adams wasn't sure he could give.

"Kitty?" the lawman asked simply, his voice cracking.

Doc tried not to flinch, fought to maintain a professional air, but it was impossible. He could do it with others, with acquaintances or strangers. But not with this man. Not with Matt.

His hesitation jerked a sharp gasp from Matt's throat. "Doc?" he snapped, teeth gritted.

"Let's sit down for a minute."

But the huge frame refused to move. "I don't want to sit down. Where is she?" He twisted toward the bedroom.

"Matt – "The doctor grabbed a hard forearm, trying to make his grip more supportive than restrictive. Not that he could have stopped him if the big man had put any effort into getting away. "She's – she's having trouble, son."

The marshal swayed suddenly, his face draining white beneath the grime of the trail. "Trouble?" Dillon managed, those eyes so pained that Doc felt it, as if someone had punched him right in the gut.

"Sit," he instructed again, then added, "please."

Pressing his lips tight, Matt tugged off his hat and perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, looking as if he would bolt for the bedroom at the tiniest sound from beyond. "Tell me," he ordered, voice rough.

"The baby is turned. What we call breech. Coming out rear end first. It makes things more difficult. Harder labor. And sometimes the baby doesn't come into the birth canal like it should."

"What does – what does that mean? I mean, what will happen?"

God, he wished he knew. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe not knowing still allowed for hope. "Well, it could mean nothing. Sometimes the baby just comes on fine."

"Sometimes?'

"Other times, there – there are problems."

"Will the baby – make it?"

"I hope so."

Dillon's teeth gritted as he braced for the next question. "Will Kitty?"

"I'm going to do my best to see that she does." He had never meant anything more in his life.

Matt dropped his head into his hands for a moment; then he looked back up. "Doc," he choked out, "if it's between the baby and Kitty – "

The doctor patted him on the arm. "I know." And he did. As much as Matt wanted that baby, and as much as they both knew Kitty wanted that baby, neither man was willing to sacrifice her life for the child's. It was a hard call, but one he could make, if necessary.

The next question came out as barely a whisper, an almost timid request so incongruous with the usual authority of his deep voice. "Can I see her?"

Doc knew he would want to, and he couldn't refuse him, even though it would be a shock. Kitty had fought all day, and it showed. "Sure."

As they walked into the bedroom, Matt swallowed so hard Doc heard it. Hannah stepped back as the tall lawman moved in and stood over the bed, looking down at the worn figure twisted in the covers. Before he could say anything, Kitty moaned, then cried out, and it was as if the sound pieced right through the big man's heart. Doc saw him jerk, watched the sheer misery on his face as he dropped to his knees and gathered her hand in his.

"Kitty," he said, hovering near her face and brushing a damp lock of her from her brow. "It's Matt, honey."

"Matt?" The question was weak, but held an energy that Doc hadn't heard before.

"Yes. I'm here. You just hang on."

Ducking his head, Doc stepped to the door, intending to ease quietly from the room for a few minutes.

"Oh, Matt. I'm so tired. I can't – "

"Yes, you can. You can, Kitty. You have to," the marshal whispered raggedly, engulfing Kitty's clammy hand in his own. "I need you, Kitty. I need you."

Adams gulped, remembering another heartbreaking moment when he watched this man sit by Kitty's side and hold her hand and whisper that very same declaration. She had made it then, with Matt's love. He prayed she could make it now the same way.

Pausing with his hand on the knob, he let his eyes scan over this tall, broad man, now hunched over in the chair, face wiped clean of anything except pain. He saw the slump of shoulders that were usually wide and square, the red-rim of eyes that rarely revealed any vulnerability, the open fear on a face that almost always masked any hint of anxiety. It was not despair, not yet. He had hoped never to see such on Matt Dillon's face again as he had two years before. It was not despair. But it was close. His wife lay, struggling through a labor that could kill her baby – and her. He had lost her once, and mercifully had found her again. Doc prayed that he didn't have to lose her a second – and final – time.

Moving back to stand next to the suffering husband, he let his hand drop onto the hard shoulder. "Matt?"

Without looking up, Dillon answered, his voice heavy with pain and exhaustion, "It doesn't look good, does it, Doc?"

"Now, you just don't think that way," Adams scolded gently, trying to encourage him. It was hard to do when he didn't feel encouraged himself. "Kitty's got sand, you know that. She's gonna fight as hard as she can for this baby, and for herself." He squeezed the shoulder. "And for you and Sam."

"She was afraid – she thought something like this might happen."

"All expectant mothers worry."

"I told her it would be fine. And then I went off and – "

"Nothing would have been any different if you had been here, Matt."

"Maybe I could have – "

"Could have what? The child still would have been breech. Hannah was here when she went into labor. Nothing would have been any different."

But the younger man didn't seem to hear him. "I can't – I can't lose her again," he whispered.

The anguish in that rough voice twisted in Adams' gut, almost making him sick. Eyes burning, he nodded and stepped outside, noting that Hannah remained quietly in the corner in case she was needed. In the outer room, he closed his eyes and prayed, harder and more earnestly than ever before. He prayed that God would be merciful to this family. He prayed that all the good Matt Dillon had done in his life, all the sacrifices he had made, would not be rewarded with a dead wife and baby – and, Doc was certain, the end of his own life for all practical purposes.

He had made this journey with them. He had suffered right along with this man during those horrible months without Kitty. He had watched with joy the reunion of two people meant for each other. He had rejoiced in the blessing of a child – and then the prospect of another. He had celebrated with the knowledge that this family would remain close. Surely he wasn't about to be forced to grieve with a devastated widower. Surely, all the joys weren't for nothing. Surely this wasn't how the journey would end.

He wasn't sure how long he had been on his knees when Hannah's frantic call broke into his prayers. "Doc!"

Struggling to rise, he hurried back into the bedroom, heart racing.

As he entered, his eyes met Matt's, and his heart broke when he saw something on that man's face he had never seen before – had never thought he would see. Wordlessly, Matt Dillon was begging. He was begging him to do something, to save the life of his wife – and, if possible, his child.

And he didn't know if he could.

**XXXX**

But now it was over, and he could only watch, tears streaming with the release of emotions he had held in check so that that could do his professional duty. He watched as Matt sat, open-mouthed and stunned, next to the bed. He watched as the marshal held that little body in his hands. He watched as a tear slid, unaccustomed, down a rugged cheek, leaving a clean trail through the grime that still smudged the rest of his face. He watched as Festus and Hannah stood in the doorway, their eyes glued to the poignant scene before them.

Doc didn't figure any of them had even seen Matt Dillon cry before, not even through the worst of pain from his many years of many injuries, but now he supposed the strong man had good reason.

Somewhere, a rooster crowed, bringing in a new day. Nature's light dimmed the glow of the oil maps and candles that had guided the physician's efforts through the night. In the growing brightness, he could see the haggard lines that creased the marshal's handsome face more deeply than they had four days before.

Matt sat on the floor, the child held out before him. Doc glanced back at Festus, who had arrived a few hours after Matt, and Hannah, saw the deep emotion of the moment reflected in their expressions. He wanted to say something, to break the hard silence, but that wasn't his privilege. That privilege rested with someone else.

Finally, slowly, the big man lifted his chin and turned toward them, his blue eyes bright. They stared at him for several beats, breaths held, until he seemed to give himself a mental shake. As he held their gazes, his mouth slowly spread into an incredible, broad, awe-struck grin.

"By golly," he breathed, voice filled with uncommon amazement. "She's beautiful, isn't she, Doc?"

As if on cue, the baby squirmed and opened her matching blue eyes, regarding them all with studied nonchalance. Like her father, Doc thought absently. He smiled, his heart nearly bursting for all of them. In truth, the baby looked much like most newborns: rather red and wrinkled. But all things being equal, he had to agree. She was, indeed, beautiful.

"You talking about the baby or Kitty?" he teased, immensely grateful he could joke.

The new father's eyes rested on his daughter adoringly before shifting to regard his wife with equal, but different, adoration. "Both," he declared confidently.

A weak snort answered. "Oh, I'm sure I'm just ravishing right about now," Kitty mumbled, exhaustion weighing down her tone.

Doc watched as Matt leaned over carefully and kissed her, his lips lingering gently for a few moments before he pulled back. "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Kathleen Dillon," he told her, his voice cracking slightly under the strain of emotion he had endured.

Tears pooled in Kitty's eyes, and Festus cleared his throat with a mixture of delight and embarrassment. Doc didn't figure the deputy had ever heard such intimacy from the hard-boiled lawman. Still, the grin that split those scraggly whiskers was contagious. Both he and Hannah found themselves joining in.

"Watcha gonna name 'er, Miz Kitty?" Festus asked.

Kitty smiled tiredly. "Ask Matt. He's the one who said she'd be a girl." Her eyes sparked with as much passion as she could muster under the circumstances. "I guess you won the bet, Cowboy," she said, and Doc could hear the private, and rather suggestive, message in her voice.

He cackled as Matt's ears reddened, but the marshal replied gamely, "I'll be collecting on that bet, Red." But as he glanced at Doc's quick frown he added, "In a few weeks, anyway."

Hannah's gleeful whoop succeeded in making the big man's cheeks flush to match his ears.

"Wael," Festus interjected in a surprisingly timely manner, "ya'd better name that pretty little gal afore I name her m'seff."

A spark of mischief lit behind the doctor's eyes. "Hey, now," he suggested, rubbing at his mustache. "Festus may have something there."

"What do you mean?" Matt asked warily.

"Well, how about we name her after one of Festus' aunts?"

"One of his _aunts_?" the marshal echoed, voice rising.

"Sure, sure," Doc continued, trying his best not to smile too widely. "I mean, the Haggens are known for their – creative – monikers, aren't they, Festus?"

"Moni – Whut?"

"Monikers. Names. Their creative names."

"Oh. Wael," the deputy acknowledged, "thet's true ennuff. An' I knowd Ain't Thede'd be plumb tickled if – "

"Aunt Thede?" Kitty asked. "Isn't her full name Theodore?"

"Shore nuff."

"And, let's see," Doc continued, "there's also Aunt George. But why stop at his aunts? Why not include the rest of his family? There's his Uncle Maud, and his cousin Feeder – that'd be nice and – "

"An' thar's my cousin Harper," Festus interrupted, "an' May Blossom's a cousin, too. 'Member she married ol' Feeder – "

Nodding enthusiastically, Doc volunteered, "I think I'm partial to Feeder, myself. Say, that'd be _fine_. Miss Feeder Dillon."

He swung a peek over toward Matt, but it took only a second to determine that the marshal was not amused. He had that dangerous look that sent even the orneriest outlaws scrambling for cover. Kitty, however, managed to see the humor.

"Well, I think maybe we ought to include more than just Festus. How about we use Curly, too?" she suggested, and Doc beamed.

"Oh, you people are a bunch of cards," Matt finally growled, but the doctor figured they all saw the hint of a smile at his lips.

It was Hannah who brought them back to seriousness. "Well," she asked, hands on her hips, attention directly on Matt, "what about it, papa? Whatcha gonna name that sweet little girl?"

Matt let his smile relax from one of amusement to one of deep satisfaction and gratitude and stared intently at the child, who now looked back at him with the same expression. Doc could see that the bond between father and daughter had already been locked as solid as fisherman's knot. "I don't know," he mumbled, glancing quickly up at Kitty. "I was thinking maybe – maybe Kathleen would be nice."

Kitty grunted and frowned. "Oh, Matt, you don't want to burden her with that – "

"Kathleen is a beautiful name," he said firmly, then let his voice soften. "The most beautiful name I know."

That ended that, as tears once again flowed down Kitty's face. Her voice thick, she agreed, "All right. Kathleen. But we'll need another name, too."

Doc narrowed his eyes as her expression became guarded, tentative, and intriguing. He couldn't imagine what she was about to suggest.

So softly that he had to strain to hear, she whispered, "What about – Maria?"

Matt's head snapped up so quickly that it startled the rest of them. Without moving an inch, Doc waited with long-suffering curiosity for the revelation of that particular name – a name that had provoked such a reaction from the normally un-reactionary marshal. A name whose utterance gave them a sudden, unexpected, and rare glimpse into the childhood of a man who most of the country imagined had come into the world as a six foot, seven inch, rock-solid U.S. marshal.

A name Doc recognized from long ago as the one Matt had once told him was his mother's name. Maria.

Conflicting emotions swept across those expressive features: regret and gratitude, pain and pleasure, anger and happiness. It was a fascinating vision. Although he knew Matt had been orphaned early in life, Doc had never really known exactly what happened to the lawman's parents. The very private man had always been tight-lipped about his youth, except to admit to more than his fair share of hell-raising before he decided to settle down on the right side of the law. Adams had only heard him speak of his mother once, and that was a quick reference that held no additional enlightenment about the marshal's past.

Now, though, as Kitty said the name, Doc watched the memories flash across the grown Matthew's face, images of a childhood long forgotten or firmly suppressed. Kitty knew. Doc wasn't sure exactly what she knew, but she knew something about what Maria Dillon had meant to a little boy with dark curls. She knew enough to evoke this extraordinary moment.

Jaw muscles working furiously to contain the rush of raw feeling that threatened to overpower his already taxed emotions, the big man sucked in a tight breath and nodded without looking up at any of them. "Maria," he choked out.

"Maria," Kitty echoed softly, reaching out to run her fingers through the hair that was still just as curly, although not quite as dark. "Kathleen Maria Dillon."

Apparently not trusting himself to speak, Matt just nodded again and stared at the child.

Catching Festus' and Hannah's watery gazes, Doc pushed down the lump in his own throat long enough to jerk his chin toward the door, and the three friends stepped back to allow the couple their moment.

Just before they left, though, Matt's soft call stopped him. "Doc?"

He looked back at the family, at the grateful father who was holding on to control by his fingernails, at the exhausted mother who was glowing through her dishevelment, at the miraculously healthy child who was eagerly taking in the new revelations of her world.

The marshal eased the baby back into Kitty's arms and paused a moment to watch as the infant instinctively rooted at her mother's breast. Then he stood, took a breath, and opened his mouth. But almost immediately he shut it again, clenching his jaw tight. In those blue eyes, Doc saw all the words his friend – his _son_ – couldn't manage to say. Saw all the shared years. Saw all the moments of pain and all the moments of joy. Saw all the doubts, all the worries, all the defeats, all the victories. Those eyes said more than paragraphs could convey.

Finally, Matt thrust out his hand, took a deep breath, and ground out two, simple words that summed up the moment – and the years. "Thank you."

Adams clasped the big hand hard, blinked, smiled, and nodded all at once, that combination his most sincere response. He didn't think his heart could get any fuller than it was, almost expected it to overflow and gush right out of his chest. He had waited so many years for this, had hoped for so long.

By golly, this was a grand end to the long journey. A grand end.

And then Kathleen Maria Dillon cooed, and he realized as he watched the new life that he had been wrong all along. This wasn't the end of the journey at all.

This was just the beginning.

**TBC in Epilogue**


	23. So Full: Epilogue

Well, guys, this is it, the really, for sure, definitely, final end to "Haunted Heart." I just realized that I first posted this story a YEAR ago, never imagining it would go on for so long. You all have been so supportive and encouraging with every chapter, making me want to make it better and better for you – which is probably why it took so long! I wanted to make sure you weren't disappointed.

This is not a long epilogue, as I had mentioned before, but I hope it brings things full circle and wraps it up. I am sort of sad to be done with it, but also relieved. Now I can pay lots of attention to the other marvelous stories everyone else is posting. Plus, I can allow those new ideas that have been popping into my head to grow. (I almost feel like Kitty – like I have birthed a baby, which I think is how Margaret Mitchell described writing _Gone with the Wind_. Not to say I am comparing myself in the _least_ with Margaret Mitchell!) Anyway, enjoy this finale! And many, many, MANY thanks to everyone!

**Haunted Heart**

A Gunsmoke Story

By Amanda (MAHC)

**Epilogue: So Full**

POV: Matt

Spoilers: None to worry about

Rating: PG-13 (Teen)

Disclaimer: The original GS characters aren't mine, of course, but I created Sam and Mia (with some help from Matt and Kitty).

**XXXX**

Matt Dillon snapped out an expletive at the sharp pain that jabbed his back as he lowered himself onto the bedroll. Wincing, he glanced around sheepishly, but there was no one else to hear him, except for the prairie dogs and coyotes, who remained politely discreet. Settling back and folding his arms behind his head, he gazed up into the night sky, at the stars sprayed generously across the heavens. It was almost peaceful enough to help him ignore the hard ground beneath his bedroll – but not quite. He had nearly forgotten how unforgiving the prairie floor could be, agitating every scar from every bullet he had ever taken.

The veteran lawman considered that he was most probably getting soft, not being on the trail nearly as frequently nowadays. In fact, this particular outing was the first time he had slept away from his comfortable bed – and bed partner – in at least six months. Not that his joints and muscles, victims of years of abuse, had been complaining about the respite. Now that they were taxed again, they objected more fervently than usual. With the rest of his group already headed to their respective homes, he could indulge again in a grunt or groan – or occasional bit of profanity.

As he lay watching the twinkling display, a familiar sight as comforting as an old friend, he found his thoughts returning to another night three years earlier, a night he had lain almost in this very spot, a night he had thought would change his life. And it certainly had, but not at all the way he planned.

Early hardships had taught the young Matthew Dillon that to succeed – indeed, to survive – he must become a man who needed nothing and no one, a man who would forever be alone. Oh, he had friends, buddies, but he never let himself get close to any of them. The wild bunch he rode with as a very young man was just as likely to die from a bullet as he was. And when he turned to the law, he understood there were no guarantees that when he woke each day he would live to see another sunrise. That philosophy had served him well. No strings to be tangled in, no relationships to worry about, no chains to bind – except those of iron that bound him to the badge.

The armor of "marshal" protected him – and others – from the pain of closeness to a man whose days were undoubtedly numbered. Through the years, though, as he realized that humans did need some connection with their fellow humans, he had reluctantly allowed a few chinks in that armor: Doc, Chester, Festus. Maybe even Quint and Thad, to some degree. Those chinks he could handle. Those chinks he could control.

But he hadn't anticipated the chink – more like the crevasse – that had chiseled her way through that armor until his treasured protection split wide open, baring him completely to her. Suddenly, uncomfortably, and marvelously, Matt Dillon wasn't alone anymore. The lessons of childhood reached deep, though, and for years he fought against real acknowledgment of that chink, pushed back his heart's urges in order to protect himself – and her – from what he knew was inevitable. He was a lawman. He made that clear to her. He would probably not live to see his 30th birthday. She accepted it. Then the birthday came and went, and he kept on going – _they_ kept on going. And somehow, he made the 40th birthday, and he kept on going – _they_ kept on going.

There were times he thought it was over – both for him and for _them_ – but they kept going. Even after the dark days three years before –

The thoughts drifted from his head and spread to his gut, churning and roiling until he cursed again and forced them away with the amazing visions of what had come from that awful time. Fate had a weird way of twisting a man's delusion of control. He could never have imagined that night that we would be lying there again, about to head home – not to a musty jail house, or even to Kitty's boudoir, but to a home, his home, filled with his children and his wife. Amazingly, he would be turning 50 in a couple of days. And he kept on going – _they_ kept on going.

He shifted under the coarse blanket, grimacing and grunting with the sharp jolt of pain. Usually, his leg won the prize for bothering him the most, but tonight his back decided to claim the title. Chuckling, even past the ache, he decided he would have to get over that fast, since both Sam and Mia would expect piggy-back rides when he returned. A smile lifted his lips automatically as he thought of his children and the unconditional love that waited for him at home. How very fortunate he and Kitty were. Both the children were healthy and happy. During his latest visit, Doc had sworn that they would be ten feet tall if they kept growing like they were. Sam's big eyes had widened as he exclaimed, "That's almost as big as Papa!" Just past her first birthday, Mia had simply stared up at her towering father and considered the possibility.

The grimace spread into a broad smile. Sam was a constant joy – and a constant challenge. Curious, boisterous, and smart, the little boy kept his parents on their toes. Although just as intelligent and curious as her older sibling, Kathleen Maria Dillon was quiet and observant. Kitty said she was like her father, but Matt saw her in the child, as well.

She had acquired the nickname "Mia" within 24 hours of her birth, compliments of her big brother. As soon as Bess Roninger delivered Sam back home, he bounded in to visit his little sister, asking if she could go outside and play Indians with him. To his great disappointment, he had discovered the baby was not much in the way of entertainment, but at his parents' prompting, he had made an effort to welcome her. When the twenty-month old had attempted to get his mouth around the name "Maria," though, "Mia" emerged. Matt had grinned and looked over the boy's rust-colored curls at his wife, both of them knowing instantly that the little girl was forever christened.

At the thought of Kitty again, he let himself wonder what she was doing that night, imagined her waiting for him, clothed only in the shadows, opening her arms to draw him close, running her fingers over his aches, kissing his scars and rubbing away the tightness of his muscles. As usual when he pictured her, his body responded, the material of his trousers tightening pleasantly. He might be turning 50, but just the thought of his fiery, beautiful redhead could still make him rock hard.

He was almost there. Tomorrow night he would be home in his soft bed with his beautiful woman, and he'd leave the unforgiving prairie ground to the dogs and coyotes.

**XXXX**

It was well past dark when he and Buck finally turned onto the road that passed by the Dillon house. Despite his determination to get home that night, exhaustion argued with him just to stop and bed down under the stars again, but the alluring vision of his bed – with Kitty waiting for him in it – kept him moving. Besides, he had promised her he'd be home tonight, and she had promised him –

He grinned to himself. He definitely didn't want to miss out on what she had promised him.

It wouldn't be long now, anyway. He ran a hand over the rough stubble of his jaw and briefly contemplated stopping by Silver Creek and freshening up, but he couldn't wait. Almost two weeks away had made him eager and impatient. Maybe she'd like to watch him shave later –

Only a few hundred yards separated them, now. It almost seemed as if even the stand of trees that shielded them from the road parted for him in welcome. Yes sir, it would be good to be home –

It was said among many of the outlaws he had bested that Matt Dillon had a sixth sense about him, an intuition that gave him an edge over other men. The lawman himself might not have believed in a sixth sense, but he had experienced enough "feelings" in his career to know not to ignore it. He just hadn't expected it at that particular time. Despite the heat of the evening, a sudden chill rushed over him, raising the hair at the back of his neck. Tugging at Buck's reins, he squinted into the darkness toward the house, his heart suddenly thudding against his chest. With a cock of his head, he listened for any sound, any sign of danger. Something was different. Something –

The soft whinny of a horse floated back to him, nothing unusual by itself. He had several horses in the corral. But for some reason –

Another horse answered the first one. Then another. Cautiously, he urged Buck forward, still straining to see into the moonless night. Behind him, an owl hooted, and he started, frowning at himself. After a few minutes, he came around the slight curve that revealed the frame structure. Jerking back on the reins again, he pulled Buck to a halt, his frown deepening at the sight before him. Lamps glowed inside, illuminating people, some sitting, some standing. Outside, several rigs – quite a few, in fact – were hitched around the yard. That explained the horses. As he eased his own horse forward again, he recognized Doc's buggy, and his heart pounded even harder. Beside it was Hannah's carriage, and next to that the Roniger's wagon.

His throat went dry. The only reason for such a gathering was sickness, or – Heaven forbid – death. Fear churned in his stomach, so strong it almost made him sick. Sweat beaded on his upper lip as he dug his spurs into Buck's sides, breaking the horse into a quick trot to complete the distance to the house. Without even tying up the animal, he threw himself off the mount, so focused on what terrible scene he might encounter he was oblivious to the pain in his knee.

Steeling himself, he strode onto the porch and grasped the doorknob, closing his eyes for a moment to gather up that last bit of strength to stand firm against what awaited him. Then, he turned his hand and took one long step inside, ready for the worst.

The tableau before him froze, almost like one of those Currier and Ives Christmas lithographs Doc had given them last year, each subject in various positions across the room. His quick eyes took in Hannah and Edsel Pry to his right, glasses in their hands. Doc lounged in the oversized rocking chair by the fireplace, surrounded by Mr. Bodkin, Newly, and Mr. Dobie, their expressions animated. Festus seemed to be holding court in the midst of a group of children, who had turned from him and now stared, open-mouthed toward the door. Other citizens of Dodge looked at him, their faces taut, as if he had caught them by surprise. Finally, he saw Kitty standing a few feet away, her blue eyes wide.

It took only a few seconds for the scene to thaw. More like it shattered with the eruption of squeals from somewhere within Festus' audience, and two whirlwinds suddenly swirled up his legs and into his waiting arms.

"Pa-pa!"

"Papa! Papa's home! Papa's home!"

The shock of their greeting, and the obvious lack of any grand demise of anyone in the room, broke through his fear. Catching up his clamoring children, hugging them tightly; then, tucking one in the crook of each arm, he looked back up toward his wife, bemused.

"Kitty, what the he– " Abruptly, he caught himself. He wasn't alone on the prairie anymore. "What on earth is going on?"

She glanced around at the crowd, all them grinning widely over witnessing the big, strong lawman's paternal display, and shrugged. Lifting the glass in her right hand, she smiled and said, "Happy Birthday, Cowboy."

**XXXX**

That night he lay again, watching the stars strewn across the velvet black heavens, but this time it was through window panes, and instead of a coarse blanket for cover, he was draped with something much warmer – and softer. Still trying to catch his breath after his powerful release, he lifted a hand and brushed through her red tresses as they spread out over his chest. They hadn't moved since they had reached the exquisite peak of their pleasure several minutes before. Kitty lay on top of him, their bodies still connected in the most intimate of embraces.

"How'd you like your birthday present?" she murmured, too spent to lift her head.

She had given him a new hat and coat, as well as dress pants, claiming that his new position warranted that he keep his "good" clothes in shape. It was no secret, either, that she liked him in the gray jacket. She liked him a lot. He was happy to oblige her.

"The coat's very nice, Kitty," he allowed, letting his hand slip lower down her back. "I'll be quite the dude in it."

Her chuckle shook them both slightly. "You'll never be a 'dude,' Matt Dillon," she declared as she dragged her arms up and crossed them on his chest, lifting her head to look down at him. "But I wasn't talking about the coat."

Ah. Raising his other hand and embracing her fully, he grinned. "Oh, _that_ present." He shrugged easily and offered, "Not bad."

With feigned indignation, she pushed away, and he was instantly sorry he had teased her as their bodies separated. "Not bad? Maybe you think someone else could do better – "

Tugging her back down, he kissed her thoroughly, moving his mouth on hers until they both had to break away to breathe. "There's no one better," he told her, his voice deep with sincerity.

The smirk he loved – and sometimes feared – made her look rather impish. "How would you know?" she challenged.

Oops. "There couldn't be. You, Kathleen Dillon, are the most incredible woman in the world."

"Yeah, nice try."

His lips slid down her neck. "Nice enough?"

She groaned and arched back. "Oh, yeah."

"Kitty," he whispered, a sudden need overwhelming him. "You are so beautiful. And Sam and Mia are – " He wasn't sure there were words to describe how he felt about his children. "I'm so sorry it took me all those years to see – "

Slender fingers pressed gently against his lips, stopping him. Her eyes shimmered as a tremulous smile lifted her mouth. "Shh. We've gone there already, Cowboy. If it weren't for all _those_ years, we might not have _these_ years. No regrets, right? Didn't you tell Newly that once?"

He nodded, wondering how she knew what he'd said to Newly.

"Face it, Matt Dillon. I love you. I've loved you since that first rainy day in Dodge, and I'll love you to the last. Count on it."

God, how he did.

Clutching her to him, he buried his face against her neck, fighting the hot tears that threatened his clinging hold on his emotions. Finally, with a shuddering breath, he allowed himself to loosen his grip, feeling her lips in his hair, her hands on his back. They held each other tenderly, having no need to talk.

Finally, he placed a soft kiss on the swell of her breast and cleared his throat, leaning back against the pillows. "Thanks for the massage, by the way," he offered, lightening the mood. "I'm not sure I could have done what we just did without you loosening up my muscles."

An amused grunt answered him. "You could have. You just might not have been able to do it _twice_."

Despite his relative lack of ego, he allowed himself a proud growl. "Damn right."

Kitty laughed fondly and looked down at him, her eyes snapping. "Third time's the charm," she challenged boldly.

Already his knee had begun to throb again, and his back issued more than just a twinge. But she had _challenged_ him. "Maybe if you give me another massage," he proposed, "I'll be up for it."

Wickedly, she reached down between them, drawing a gasp from him. "Oh, I don't think another massage will be necessary," she said, squeezing firmly, "but never let it be said that Kitty Russell – "

"Dillon."

"That Kitty _Dillon_ wasn't accommodating."

And she proceeded to be very accommodating, indeed.

But as their passions re-ignited, before he gave up all conscious thought, he couldn't help looking at her once more, his heart almost bursting with the emotions he never really would completely let loose, and considered how much different this homecoming was compared to that gut-wrenching return three years before when he had strolled into the Long Branch and found out she was gone. A man who had always lived in the present and taken things as they came, he rarely contemplated the "what-ifs." But sometimes he considered what might have happened if Kitty hadn't left, or if he hadn't gone after her, or if he hadn't found her when he did go after her. Where would he be tonight? Would he be lying on a hard cot in a musty jail? Would he be lying, alone, out on the prairie? Or would he be lying eternally up on Boot Hill?

The sensation of her hot flesh taking him deep inside thrust the philosophical thoughts to the back of his mind. They didn't matter, anyway. God had been merciful to him once again. Kitty had been merciful. Instead of the jail or the prairie – or Boot Hill – he was lying in a soft, warm bed, making love to a beautiful, vibrant woman, their two happy, healthy children sleeping just a few feet away.

Breaking the vow ingrained from childhood, Matt Dillon had stopped being alone. And his heart, which was once so haunted, was peaceful and calm.

And so very, very full.

**END**

"In the night though we're apart,

There's a ghost of you within my haunted heart.

Ghost of you, my lost romance,

Lips that laugh, eyes that dance.

Haunted heart won't let me be,

Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.

Dreams are dust, it's you who must belong to me,

And thrill my haunted heart.

Be still, my haunted heart.

Time rolls on trying in vain to cure me.

You are gone but you remain to lure me.

You're there in the dark and I call,

You're there but you're not there at all.

Oh, what will I do without you, without you.

Haunted heart, won't let me be.

Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.

Dreams are dust, it's you who must belong to me

And thrill my haunted heart.

Be still, my haunted heart."

"Haunted Heart"

1948

Lyrics: Howard Dietz

Music: Arthur Schwartz


End file.
